


Fragments of Time

by Stormcalled (Raidho)



Series: In Perfect Love and Perfect Trust [1]
Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dragoon Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Pining, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2020-07-19 23:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19982245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raidho/pseuds/Stormcalled
Summary: G'raha Tia expected to wake in a brighter world where he might tend the flame of his dear friends' legacies.  He did not expect to wake to a world in flames, where those legacies are naught but ashes.And yet in the darkest of times hope remains, even beyond the end of the world.  He will see the wishes of his forebears and the struggling survivors of the eighth umbral calamity fulfilled.A series of connected short stories detailing the long and winding course charted by that guiding star.





	1. Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four days (two hundred years) after closing the doors of the Crystal Tower, three days after waking, G'raha finally comes face to face with the truth of history. It hurts even more than he expected.

The blanket swallowed G’raha as he wrapped it around his shoulders, corners dragging the floor even when he doubled up the fabric. It was soft, and the weight comforting as he settled down into a much abused, overstuffed chair behind Biggs’ desk. Times being what they were the office wasn’t much, but it reminded him of the shabby, absent-minded style of some of the professors in Sharlayan. He wondered briefly how they’d fared, if they’d finally been a target after…

It didn’t seem real yet, what they’d told him on waking. He pulled the blanket a little tighter against the chill he couldn’t seem to get out of his bones, like the cold crystal of the Tower had seeped into him while he slept. One of the Ironworks members--he didn’t know their names yet--came in with a roegadyn-sized mug of something hot, which he took gratefully, using both hands to hold it. For the moment he huddled over it, just basking in the warmth. He had a hundred people to ask after, a thousand things to ask about, but none of them wanted to slot into place in his mind. When he closed his eyes he remembered what scraps of the dream remained to him: the strong, clean lines of the inlay on the desk; the dual sensations of fearful anticipation and loving peace; the soft thrum of power through his hands as he assembled the night-dark mask from its broken shards, each piece welding together in lines of gold with no metalworking tools or materials in sight. Try as he might he couldn’t recall the words, only that they’d been spoken in a language he understood without knowing, that one of them had been a name he must remember, and that it was  _ desperately important _ he carry out the task he’d been given.

The workers began hauling in boxes and lining them up near the door. G’raha watched, eyes following their movement keenly while tip of his tail twitched like a cat watching a bird, but his mind remained fixed on the dream. He knew that he should  _ not _ have dreamed while in stasis within the Tower, but it could have been  _ anything _ . A malfunction, an imprint of the previous occupants,  _ interference _ perhaps from the calamity--

Biggs himself brought in the last box, setting it down with a huff, and straightened, putting a hand to his back. “That’s the last of ‘em. Old Cid went a bit off his rocker collecting these--tried to get hands on everything he could, it seems. Not everything survived the moves… but the important things are still there. The private things. Did you need anything else?”

_ You will be the part of me honed to a blade's edge on the whetstone of his wit and folly. But I cannot write his name on you,... that I must do to another. _

“Yes, actually.” He cleared his throat, voice still weak and rough from two centuries of disuse. “Did I… say anything when I woke?” Now he remembered dimly the sensation of his lips moving, and the  _ feeling _ of the name in his mind.

“Yeah.” Biggs paused in the doorway, voice softening. “His name.”   


“That’s… that’s all, thank you.” Biggs shrugged and closed the door behind him.

G’raha sat alone, curled over the warm mug and mind spiraling around this mystery. He strained to remember  _ anything _ else. If the dream had been caused by the calamity, something from a soul from distant shores--had it been a memory of that unfortunate individual? If he could remember any of the words it might offer  _ something _ to start with, to unravel this secret. If so how had he received this message, why and  _ what did it mean? _

And why did the unknowable name come out as the name of the last man he’d seen before sealing the Tower? He had… regrets regarding their time together, and their parting, but not so severe as to justify… that. Those days weren’t even distant enough in his memory for melancholic nostalgia to set in He’d scarcely been awake three days, and as such it seemed only  _ four _ since he’d seen the rest of NOAH.

He eyed the boxes warily from across the desk. Cold truth resided within, the most important parts of Cid’s notes to what the Ironworks had asked of him, and all the information the Ironworks possessed about the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. They’d begun work on the necessary devices to outfit the Tower the moment they’d obtained his cooperation, and while he’d need to do a small amount of experimentation to assist them in connecting the systems, the far more difficult task lay twofold before him: determine  _ when _ to summon the Warrior of Light from, and how to do it. He was the best suited person alive for the former, and would be the only one capable of the latter.

It was a truly  _ outlandish _ plan, and he’d told them so, but all the same he’d agreed. Biggs seemed supremely confident of Cid’s research, that it was not merely possible to traverse both the rift  _ and _ time, but that the Ironworks had discovered how to do so and meant to implement it. Cid was--...had been… the most brilliant mind of their time.

He finally sipped from his mug, finding the liquid pleasantly warm and both creamy and spiced. A variant on chai, perhaps? The flavor and the heat soothed his aching throat and poured a little warmth into his bones, and he decided he’d stalled enough. G’raha carefully wrapped the blanket over his arms and lifted his tail to keep the back of it off the ground, then stood and stepped around the desk, still holding the mug in both hands. He settled on the floor next to the boxes, putting his mug aside, and began inspecting their labels. On finding the right one he thumbed through the files, looking for specific words or a certain date. He’d known everyone would be long gone by the time he woke, but it still seemed so unbelievable. He’d seen all of them  _ four days ago _ .

Finally he found it and pulled out the file, a thick envelope.  _ Black Rose Release Incident, Alliance Intelligence Report.  _ It contained three loosely bound folios. He flipped through the first, finding general details like medical reports, casualty numbers, lists of names, detailed descriptions of the safety equipment necessary to enter the ravaged areas and the threshold of low aether that signaled suit failure imminent…. The statistics were alarming, but they were just that, statistics. His mind processed numbers and facts with the impartiality of a scholar. The second folio, however, seemed to be a direct report from an individual team scouting the release site. The soldiers hadn’t attempted to remain professional, describing with plain but immense detail the horror of the scene. It contained crystallographs, too, images projected by miniaturized glamour prisms embedded into the paper, and they depicted something far beyond a massacre. The number of bodies was simply overwhelming. He struggled to comprehend it; there were as many dead in this one location as one would expect to see live and going about their business in any of the major cities. The report came to the section describing finding the Scions and their relative positions, speculating on what they’d been doing when the weapon struck, and it became clear the report had been compiled from several different observers. Some, it seemed, could not handle the sight of certain people, so another took over.

Their observations of the site of Aden’s death were curt, as obviously none of the scouts had the presence of mind by that point to commit to memory the details of the death of the Warrior of Light. But they scarcely needed to: there he lay on the page, sprawled on his back with his spear an ilm from his grasping fingers. He’d dug furrows in the dirt with that hand, the other clutched at his chest. G’raha expected his face to be locked into a defiant snarl, or perhaps a look of pain, but instead it was distressingly slack, dead eyes staring up at nothing. He didn’t look as if he’d died fighting, or struggling, he just… looked dead. Several images depicted different angles of the scene as words had failed the scouts, and in some he saw the Leveilleur twins curled above Aden’s shoulders, as if they’d been trying to aid him after he fell and then simply laid down themselves, bodies betraying them under the insidious weapon.

For a long time G’raha stared numbly at the images, unable to process them. He’d seen Aden not four days ago-- _ four days! _ \--his heart screamed at him, but in his mind he began to grasp the passage of time. Everyone who had known Aden was dead and gone. And everyone who had known those scant survivors who  _ had _ known him were  _ also _ dead and gone. He touched the first image with trembling fingers. He had  _ known _ this would happen, that everyone would be  _ lost _ to him, but it had seemed right at the time. The Tower was a danger beyond reckoning, the power to transform the world, and they had neither the knowledge nor the manpower to protect it any other way. But no matter how much he told himself that now he finally understood how  _ impulsive _ what he’d done was, to go forward without consulting everyone, how  _ foolish _ to leave them all behind. Had they missed him? Had they felt what he was feeling now, the horrible knowledge in the very center of his heart that he would never see any of them again, or hear of their deeds? Had they  _ needed _ the Tower? Could he have  _ helped  _ them?   


He didn’t think himself so important as to turn the tides of war, but his studies had taught him the smallest of things could change the course of history. If he had stayed--stayed with all the knowledge of his forebears and the power of the Crystal Tower-- _ could he have saved them _ ? Would any of this have  _ happened _ ? He caressed that horrible, dead image on the page because it was  _ all he had left _ in the midst of his grief and overflowing regret. G’raha had been prepared to wake up in a future made all the brighter by them, content to make their legacies flourish, but now all he had was a broken world and a heart full of  _ all the things he hadn’t said _ . That tender little spark he’d nursed during their adventure flared now, his admiration, camaraderie, and-- _ yes _ , if he was honest with himself-- _ love _ for the man who lay dead in those images. They’d only known each other a few short moons, and Aden had never once mentioned matters of the heart, so G’raha didn’t dare risk their friendship or his respect for something he’d thought a passing fancy and hero worship at the time. But Aden embodied everything G’raha had fervently desired since his childhood, and rather than dismissing his thirst for adventure as immature encouraged him. With the terrible gift of hindsight he  _ knew _ now what he’d felt--what he still felt, it’d only been  _ four days _ \--had been more. If only he’d  _ said _ something, would--

Tears finally struck the page, one sending up sparks from the delicate, tiny glamour prisms and the image flickered. G’raha yelled out his sorrow and frustration, throwing the folio back at the box before he could damage it further. Then he drew his legs up under the blanket, rested his arms on his knees, buried his head and sobbed brokenly.


	2. Steppe Outrider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search for the right time from which to call the Warrior of Light bears an unlooked for moment of levity.

The ruins of Idyllshire were surprisingly unchanged from Edmont’s description of them in  _ Heavensward _ . More vines, perhaps, slowly eating away at the structures, but the Black Rose hadn’t made it this far, and the goblins’ system of governance and collective ideals made for a strikingly resilient society. Between that and their high adventurer population, they hadn’t exactly flourished--but compared to everywhere else they’d been, it was  _ bustling _ . G’raha craned his neck in every direction to catch glimpses of the familiar architecture style. Thus distracted he didn’t notice the small group of children running through the streets until they were upon him, and he had to shift onto one leg to avoid a collision with one of them. The last in the pack grabbed at the hem of his poncho and gave it a sharp tug, laughing as she nearly unbalanced him and ran off into the ruins. He had to wrench his tail around to right himself, and watched them go with a smile. After how few children he’d seen since waking, he couldn’t be mad at them. He’d often wished he could recapture that carefree ignorance of just how terrible the world was.

No, not that. His smile turned bitterwseet. He pursued his heart’s true desire; unmaking all this. Those children wouldn’t understand, though--and did he have any right to do it? They might grow to find a short, brutal life full of horror and sorrow, but did he have the right to take the opportunity to exist from them? From their mothers and fathers, from their grandparents--to wipe out their entire line by unmaking the tragedy that had brought them to where they were?

_ He would tell you no _ . He’d read enough of Aden’s correspondence with Edmont to know how much he valued the right to chart one’s own course. But this was not solely G’raha’s decision--if anything, he was merely a willing tool, the instrument of the will of hundreds if not thousands of people spread across the land.

He came to a standstill in the street, gaze cast down.  _ Don’t think like that _ , he chided himself.  _ Take responsibility for what you are doing. You are unmaking this world to save one not yet known. To restore the dim possibility of happiness and peace. By your hand, and the hands of the Ironworks.  _ A roll of the dice with this timeline as ante. A gamble, that he could save the Warrior of Light, and in doing so save their future.

G’raha looked back up, rubbing at the corner of his eye with his wrist. He had to try not to think about the fact that everyone he met today would never exist if everything went to plan.

“Let’s be about it,” he heard from behind, softly, and turned to find Biggs. “I’ve found the place.”

G’raha nodded and fell into step behind the roegadyn, glad for the moment to be led about and left with his thoughts. The peaceful places were so much harder, the ones he could see getting on with their lives in spite of everything.  _ I’m charting my own course _ , as if he had to excuse his actions to his long-dead friend,  _ by your star. You would make the hard choice, and it would kill you inside to do it, but you would pick yourself up and soldier on. _

_ I’m charting my own course… to you. _ He winced, trying to squash that selfish, ugly thought, but if he was honest with himself, he wanted nothing more than to return to those days in the Tower, or sitting outside Saint Coinach’s Find watching the stars or the moonlight refract through crystals, wondering what they’d find on the morrow. He’d done far, far more talking than Aden, but he’d grown to know when the man’s silence was companionable rather than stoic. The memories were a comfort, but if he dwelt on them too long he’d begin to number his regrets.

Fortunately Biggs pushed open the door to one of the buildings and they stepped into a cramped space barely wide enough for the large man’s shoulders--comfortably close for G’raha. He crossed the threshold and looked up, eyes bright, breathed deeply.

He hadn’t seen so many books in  _ years _ . They packed all manner of scavenged and purpose built shelves, stacked to the ceiling with ladders braced precariously against them. A chime sounded as the door closed, but he scarcely noticed it. Instead he crossed to the nearest shelf, running his fingers along the spines of the books like he might an old, familiar lover.

_ He’d be happy here. _

“Good morning, sers--oh my, travelers?” He hadn’t heard the lalafellin man approach, but looked down to see him just beyond Biggs, wiping at his spectacles with his shirt tail before putting them back on. “From the dust on your boots you’ve come a long way.”

“It took a very long time to get here.” G’raha grinned at his joke, and wider at Bigg’s expected sigh. “Would that we had the leisure to peruse to our heart’s content, but I fear we’ve taken  _ too  _ long getting here. Do you have anything on the last Warrior of Light, praytell? Ser Aden Dellebecque of Ishgard?”

“Fairy stories, is it?” The man smiled wryly. “I’ve a few, yes.”

“I’m more interested in histories,” G’raha corrected him. “Most particularly after the liberation of Ala Mhigo, but I’ll take anything you have, fairy stories or no.”

“Histories, is it? Few and far between those are--most of the primary sources passed with him, you know….” The man adjusted his glasses before turning to make his way through the stacks, and he beckoned G’raha to follow. “There’s  _ Heavensward _ , of course, though I’m afraid I sold my last copy a moon ago. That would be the best and most accurate record available…” He paused in front of a shelf and pulled off a book from the greatest height he could reach and handed it to G’raha, then pointed at another further up. “That one, if you will. Anything, you said?”

“Anything.” It might be a charming distraction to read a childrens’ story about his old friend, and he was curious as to how they’d temper his rough personality for such an audience. They only found a couple more books on their way through the stacks, one of which  _ particularly _ caught his eye. The proprietor tossed it up to him, a smartly jacketed book of moderate size, printed in an inexpensive fashion but coated in an older style of alchemical preservative that’d turned the pages slightly off-pink. Shifting the books to one arm, he flipped it over with his other hand, and found the cover a rather scandalous illustration of a miqo’te man--who didn’t  _ quite _ look like Aden, just enough different that the author  _ might _ get away with it--half out of a more traditional drachenmail than what Aden had worn.  _ Steppe Outrider _ , the title read, with a note beneath indicating it to be the first translation from the original Hingan. G’raha snorted, lips curling up in mirth, and flipped it open one-handed to a random page.

_ “...I’ve never met a beast I couldn’t master.” _

_ “Oh,” she said, pressing her heaving bosom to his sculpted chest, leaning her horns gently against his shoulder, “but what if  _ you’re _ the one to be ridden?” _

G’raha all but  _ shouted _ a laugh, startling the proprietor and Biggs alike. He quickly flipped to the front, looking for a publication date, and found it. Another laugh tore itself out of him, bright and joyful, and he had to shove the books off on Biggs to avoid dropping them, keeping just the one. It took a while to get himself under control, and by the time he calmed he was wiping way tears, cheeks burning from the breadth of his smile. “Twelve above, I bet he  _ hated _ this. What I wouldn’t give to have seen his face…” He flipped it open to another page, caught something about the Buduga tribe and some more dialogue promising licentious acts on further pages. He cracked up again, doubling over this time with the book held against his knee, thumb marking his spot.

“So… we’re taking it, then?” Biggs asked.

G’raha waved an affirmative at him, unable to speak through laughter and tears. He probably looked and sounded like a madman to the proprietor, but it was a  _ romance novel _ \--and a rather risque one at that--that seemed to incorporate Aden’s rather famous skill for riding  _ anything _ as a repeated reference. It’d been published in his lifetime, too, and  _ while _ he’d been in the East, no less. By the dates it seemed the book had somehow beaten him back to Eorzea, and  _ oh _ no one could put a  _ price _ on what he’d give to have some inkling of Aden’s reaction. Fury, no doubt, disguising his utter mortification.

Eventually G’raha got himself under control and straightened up, a little light-headed from all the laughter and the position he’d been in. He dabbed his eyes with sleeve, and exclaimed again, “Gods! This alone was worth the trip.”

With any luck, he’d one day be able to ask what Aden thought of it in person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on a joke I made during Stormblood about the RP version of Aden. When I came up with a WoL!AU version of him I thought, why not keep the romance novel? It's even more easily justified in these circumstances.


	3. Dragonsong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar voice reaches across time with an unexpected message: G'raha will never again see the man he knew, but he may one day save who that man became.

G'raha closed the door behind him, eyeing the dim interior of the office. He felt guilty at having more or less commandeered the place from Biggs, but the man spent more time in the Tower retrofitting systems than anywhere else, and G'raha had need of the space. He could easily find somewhere inside the Tower, but… He trailed one hand over the worn wood of the desk idly. The Tower only reminded him of his folly, and he would spend enough time in those cold halls soon. These small creature comforts he would take while he could get them.   


With a sigh he rounded the desk and got to the task he’d spent the last quarter bell avoiding. It’d taken much toil and coin to acquire their latest find, and G’raha dreaded it as much as he desired it: recordings smuggled out of the ruins of old Sharlayan, made compatible with their equipment after a few modifications. He loaded the first one into the player, set a brief delay, and dropped into that comfortable, much-abused chair behind Biggs’ desk, throwing his legs over one arm of it and settling a battered notebook in his lap. A full minute of silence played, leading him to wonder at the contents--he knew only that they were incomplete sections of a series of interviews conducted days before the fighting grew pitched and the Black Rose was deployed.

_ “...There. We’re recording again.” _ An unfamiliar female voice with a  _ very _ familiar accent rattled off a series of numbers, a date, and gave Aden’s full name and title--he’d not seen or heard the whole thing all together in one place, and smiled at the pretension of it. It was quite a mouthful considering he hadn’t reverted his adoptive name to that of his birth, and yet the house of his birth was the one uplifted to noble status subject to House Fortemps. They included the title inherited from his late fiance, and G’raha thought he heard the softest exasperated noise from Aden as she said it. It jarred him, such a familiar thing, near to his memory but distant in time. His title as a dragoon followed, and his status as a member of the House of Lords, and this time G’raha  _ definitely _ heard a quiet, annoyed sound in the background. It brought a smile to his face; he could all but see the man in his mind’s eye, probably seated across from his interviewer, one elbow against the arm of his chair and cheek against his palm, staring at her as if he could  _ will _ her to get on with it.

_ “You’re better at that than I am _ .” __ G’raha startled at the familiar/unfamiliar sound. When last he’d heard Aden’s voice it carried the soft twang of the far reaches of the Shroud, but now it seemed devoid of all accent but a hint of his native Ishgardian. He sounded downright  _ cosmopolitan _ , as if he’d deliberately wiped his voice clean of those little tells to the best of his ability.

The interviewer laughed nervously.  _ “Yes, well, I have it written down.” _

_ “Maybe I should do that. Get it tattooed on the inside of my arm so I remember the whole thing next time I need to browbeat someone with it.” _

G’raha chuckled to himself, and began idly doodling in the margins of his notebook. He relaxed into the pleasant rumble of his old friend’s voice, heart warm even as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. For a few moments here he could reach through time and be with the man he missed so much, if he closed his eyes and listened.

_ They sat by a warm hearth in the plush environs of an Ishgardian manor, some small private parlor, sized and set for intimate conversation. The recording device stood between them and to one side, opposite the fireplace. The mystery interviewer he filled in with an old colleague from the Students of Baldesion, someone Aden would never have met but who had been a kind soul. Himself he placed curled on a divan to one side of the hearth, cast in shadow and listening quietly, out of sight, out of scene. _

_ “Let us get to today’s topic, shall we?” His old colleague straightened the sheaf of papers she held in her lap and barreled straight on. “Owing to your unique gifts, your training as a dragoon, and your experiences in ending the Dragonsong War, my superiors have concluded that you must have not only heard dragonsong, but truly understood it. Is that correct?” _

_ His mind’s eye couldn’t paint surprise on Aden’s face until after his silent pause. “Yes?” Aden hesitated, making a soft, uncertain sound in his throat. “But all dragoons understand it, to a degree. If you traffic in their powers you feel the pull of it, no matter how small your own skill. The Azure Dragoon especially, I suppose, before Nidhogg’s demise.” _

_ “That is not quite what I mean,” she said, leaning forward slightly. “Do you  _ understand _ it? Not in the way one understands dragon speech if the speaker wishes it. Owing to the gift of the Echo.” _

_ “Yes,” he said at last. “Perfectly.” _

_ “Do you think that you could translate what you’ve heard, if you recall it well enough?” _

_ “It’s not….” He trailed off, looking to the fire as if his answer lie there. “The language translates poorly, and the songs themselves carry multi-layered meanings encoded in the specific pitches. There is an emotional component as well, transmitted aetherically. I couldn’t translate it into any tongue of man given a hundred years.” _

_ “Would you translate what components can be translated? While we have many descriptions of what dragoons experience of the song and what it sounds like to the average individual, no record so specific exists. You may be the only spoken individual in recorded history with the unique combination of skills and abilities necessary to fully understand it.” _

_ “I’ll try. Give me a moment.” Aden leaned back in his chair, pressing his head against the plush back of it, closed his eyes and took a heavy breath, forcing himself to relax. He stayed like that for a long time, silent, contemplative. When he opened his eyes his mismatched gaze remained fixed on the ceiling. “Nidhogg’s song has never left me. None of the songs I’ve heard have, but his is fixed in my heart. No matter how long dead he lies, it will always echo at the core of me. It might be… easiest. I understand it best, save for a song I will not share here.” _

_ He took another deep breath, and then he began to  _ sing. It startled G’raha out of his reverie, eyes snapping open as he stared at the recorder in shock. A heart-rending dirge in a strong, rich baritone rang out of the machine. He scrambled to sit upright, ears fixed upon the sound and eyes wide, heart hammering in his chest. When he’d known Aden the man could barely carry a tune in a bucket, and he’d had little art in his voice on the few occasions G’raha had rather teasingly tried to teach him a song. To hear this coming out of him was unthinkable.

And yet there it was, the evidence of his own ears. It wasn’t  _ professional  _ by any means, and he himself could likely still sing circles around Aden. But he could no longer envision the shy, awkward young man he’d relied upon during their explorations, not with this rich, mature,  _ confident _ voice singing this  _ deeply _ sorrowful song. No, Aden had grown beyond his knowing, changed by a hundred marks on his soul. And dragonsong in his heart, apparently, had righted his awful pitch.

The more he learned the more complete his mental image became, not of the adventurer barely into adulthood that he’d known, but the man that adventurer had grown into. And G’raha’s heart ached, that he had recklessly thrown away the chance to know that man or the hundred marks on his soul, could only let the shattered pieces of his own heart settle into comfortable, dark places with the scattered fragments left behind by his great legacy.

Somehow, even if everything worked out, he knew he would never sing with the man, and that burned more than anything yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always thought it no accident that BRD and DRG synergized so well before they decided to rework crit buffs.


	4. Apex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a challenge G'raha is _perfectly_ suited to deal with.

The Moogle seated on a fluffy throne that absolutely _swallowed_ her squinted imperiously at G’raha when he glanced up out of his courtly bow before her. “While your words are lovely, we know the sons of man who dwell below care only for spoils and war, kupo! Say your piece and leave in peace.” A trio of moogles to the side rested their tiny paws on weapons ranging from the size of kitchen knives to shortswords, and G’raha struggled against the urge to laugh. So he straightened, and told the Good Queen about his errand and his purpose.

“The who? The _what_?” She started up out of her throne, waving her scepter about. “No! By every nut on our trees, no! Why would you endeavor to return us to the Toiling Times, and why would we _help you_?”

“I beg your pardon?” His ears shifted forward under the hood of his cloak. “Toiling Times?”

“Oh, the Toiling Times! No one _survived_ !” She flopped dramatically back onto her throne. “That it was so long ago it’s beyond a moogle’s natural lifespan is besides the point! The _Toiling Times_! The darkest time in the history of our great kingdom, kupo!”

“The terrible man you labor to return to life _enslaved_ our people to restore Bahrr Lehs!” her steward chimed in, before he fluttered over to her to take up her hand and pat it as if she’d fallen into a faint--which she hadn’t.

“ _Enslaved_?” G’raha turned to look over his shoulder at Biggs, who merely shrugged, before turning back. “My sincerest apologies,” he said, haltingly, “but I fear I do not know this tale. Would you be so kind as to enlighten me?”

“Enslaved!” the queen repeated, rolling her head side to side in her puffball throne. “He came with armed soldiers from Ishgard, and craftsmen with their terrible hammers, and he--he--”

Another moogle across the room cleared his throat, and the queen and her steward looked up sharply. G’raha followed their gazes to find a moogle wearing what appeared to be a pair of spectacles shoved up onto their head, but how they stayed up other than tension he couldn’t tell. “Reminded us of our sacred pact with the kingdom of dragons and men that once existed here and our duty to keep their memory?” they said in a dull, flat tone.

“ _Yes!_ ” She shouted, falling back into her mock-swoon.

“Along with a master craftsman taught us the skills and work ethic necessary to maintain our own structures and those of our ancestors?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

“Put us to this work of our own free will and set up a system by which we would be duly compensated for our efforts?”

“ _Yes! Enslaved_ , you see. He made us _work!”_ She leaned forward again, waving her scepter. “So we _won’t_ help you, kupo! Who knows, if he’d never _died_ maybe we’d all be--be--”

“Productive?” The other moogle adjusted their glasses, even though they were nowhere in the vicinity of their eyes.

This time she _did_ swoon, and the guards saw G’raha and Biggs out at steakknifepoint.

* * *

  


G'raha sat at the edge of the island upon which Moghome resided, legs crossed and chin in his hands, staring out at Zenith in the distance. Even if they'd brought a flying conveyance, they'd be unable to reach their destination. Biggs paced restlessly some fulms behind him, and a pair of moogles argued over something trivial near the aetheryte--one of the few he'd seen still lit up. Black Rose hadn't touched this high country, it seemed. Most curious, since Azys Lla had fallen from the sky after some few years, baring its deadly secrets to one and all with the wit and will to possess them. As such, the moogles didn't really give a damn about the Calamity or restoring the Warrior of Light to life. In fact, quite the opposite--it seemed the moogles here _feared_ him. But G'raha needed them.

Rather, he needed the people they could put him in contact with, who otherwise might welcome him with wing and claw.

Biggs stopped pacing right behind him, and said, voice tense, "Let's be off, aye. The furry little buggers aren't going to be any use."

G’raha’s ears drooped, and he started rearranging the pack sitting on the ground next to him in preparation for the long trek back down. But then he paused, hand on one of the books he’d brought with him--a battered, barely legible journal pulled from the rubble of the Congregation of Her Knights Most Heavenly. It’d survived a long time only to be nearly destroyed in the siege they’d weathered inside the remains of Fortemps Manor, and he’d snatched it from the ruins because of the date on the first page.

He pulled it out and carefully thumbed through to one of the places he’d marked. There a pale watercolor spread across both pages: the ethereal vista from nearly this very spot. G’raha turned the book so it oriented to match the landscape and held it up. “Come here,” he said, looking between the book and the view, and Biggs crouched down behind him, leaning over his shoulder. “Do you see something missing?”

“This big island, shrouded in clouds.” Biggs reached past him to indicate it in the painting. “D’you think it fell like Azys Lla?”

“It was much higher up than everything else here,” G’raha said, and he slowly began to pan the vista in the book around, trying to compare it to everything. Here an island had listed slightly, there two had crashed into one another. But sure enough, everything over a certain height had disappeared. “By the twelve,” he whispered. “I believe we’ve found the reason Azys Lla fell when the attacks came nowhere near….Some upper level wind must have caught the Black Rose and dispersed it over a certain height.”

“Would have to be a strong wind to keep blowing with that on its wings, but aye, I wager that’s exactly what happened..” Biggs lowered his hand, settling it on G’raha’s shoulder. “Come on. We’ve work to do elsewhere, if they won’t cooperate.”

“Just a moment.” G’raha lowered the book, spreading it in his lap and hunching forward as he flipped ahead a few pages. “I didn’t have time to finish this, perhaps it says something useful.”

Biggs sighed and gave his shoulder a squeeze before standing and wandering off. Any other time he might’ve welcome the attempt at comfort, but right now he was _frustrated_. The moogles had _worried_ him for a moment with their confidence when they first used the word _enslaved_. He was equal parts annoyed and thankful it turned out they were just lazy sots, and he hadn’t turned over some unexpected dark chapter in Aden’s life. Merely the normal sort of unexpected.

G’raha looked up at the view again, staring out at the towering structure of Zenith. He knew from piecing together accounts that Aden had spent a great deal of time here, but they made little mention of _what_ aside from a scattering of entries in a botanical almanac credited to him. If he’d been here with a team of crafters who were restoring ruins, had he been helping survey those ruins? Had _he_ been working with them? He’d been a dabbler in a couple of needful disciplines when they knew each other, things that helped maintain armor, but nothing more. G’raha wondered if he’d sought solace in the work of his hands, if he’d put the energy of his grief into _making_ things here. As G’raha did now on a truly terrifying scale.

He turned his attention back to the journal and flipped to the next entry, scanning it for any mention of--

_Ser Dellebecque stopped by our encampment to query us on our work. Unofficial visit, he insisted, but no one of that rank does anything unofficial. Caught Aldenet carrying water in his helm, the sot, but didn’t chastise him. Ten gil says he’ll get writ up when we get home! Gave us some advice on dealing with the fuzzy little bastards whats been stealing out survey equipment. Show of dominance, he said, but force as a last resort. Looked right tired when he said that, bet he’s popped a moogle’s pom off. Apparently their society’s based around who can bully who about--familiar, eh?--and who plays the best pranks. Gave us a few tips on putting the fear of Halone into them. Can’t wait to see the little bastards nic another survey log and come off sodden in ink! I’ll show ‘em who’s the biggest prick on this flying rock!_

“ _Pranks?_ ” G’raha read the text over again incredulously. And then again, running the tips of his fingers over Aden’s name. “Thank you,” he murmured. It seemed even in death, two hundred years gone and through the pen of a stranger, Aden still forged a path for him.

“Biggs!” He gently place the book back in his pack, rising to his feet. “I’m going to need a hand!” G’raha smiled, mind reeling with a hundred possibilities already. He was a bit _rusty_ , but no one in the Students of Baldesion had _ever_ matched him for mischief, and he wasn’t about to let a bunch of _moogles_ get the better of him.

* * *

In performance magic, timing and misdirection were _everything,_ and setting up a good prank was no different. G’raha managed to engineer a _mishap_ involving some of the moogles’ tools used for cracking open kupo nuts, which kept them busy for a few bells. Then the local wildlife just _happened_ to smell something _utterly delicious_ about the settlement, tying up the guard for a while--nothing dangerous wandered in, mind, merely _obnoxious_ and large enough for the potential of property damage. It bought time to set up the stage for the _real_ trick, and for them to be seen leaving dejectedly around mid-day.

G’raha checked his glamour as best he could in the reflection of a knife by moonlight. He didn’t have the physical objects to project an appearance from, but he _did_ have a few prints from newspapers clipped and used as bookmarks, and the image of a dead man seared into his memory. So perhaps the armor wouldn’t quite be period-accurate, and his skin tone was _far_ off, but with the other trick he meant to employ it wouldn’t matter. The important parts were there: what looked like heavy plate, red hair, miqo’te. In the darkness they wouldn’t look past that, and _hopefully_ they wouldn’t recall enough details of him to reach the obvious conclusion.

 _Fear of Halone,_ the journal had said. G’raha smirked; well, he’d be putting the fear of _a_ fury into them. He couldn’t help but think this trick was _just_ mean enough that Aden would find it _funny as all hells._

The moogles of Moghome settled down for their evening meal, quite late as they’d had to argue about who would do the cooking, and find out who had been responsible for cleaning up the cookware from breakfast, then berate them for not doing their job, then argue about the fact that it turned out whoever was supposed to clean up from _the night before_ hadn’t and they’d just used everything anyroad. Not that preparation was all that difficult, or their diet particularly varied, but they had _standards_ , kupo. Standards that _someone else_ should see to. They were still mincing about the day around a cheery fire when someone pointed out the shape in the shadows. And that was his cue.

The undead spectre of one Aden Dellebecque--as portrayed with few supplies to hand by G’raha Tia--stepped from the shadows in a _blaze_ of light that danced around his armor and obscured his features. “ **Harken unto me, children of Moogle Mog: once you slaved under my adamant fist, and in the peaceful slumber of death have I turned a blind eye to your negligence.”** A moogle screamed, and he wondered if the luminescent aetheroreactive paste giving him a more ghostly appearance he’d whipped up _based on Aden’s botany notes_ wasn’t a bit much. **“So I have spared your insignificant settlement from the fate of the world below. No longer! You have spurned my mortal agents, and for your impudence I shall rip the land from your skies as I did Nidhogg’s lair!”** He raised one hand into the air, feeding the luminescent paste a smidge more aether. The moogle who’d screamed dropped out of the air in a faint--oh, _yes_ , the paste _was_ a bit much.

With _perfect_ timing one of the guardsmoogles rushed in shouting, “Uh, somekupo, _anykupo_ , the next island over is--is--”

“ _IT WASN’T OUR FAULT!”_ the Queen shouted, hovering low in the air before him in supplication. _“WE RAN OUT OF KUPO NUTS! THE FOUNTAIN BURNED DOWN! BANDITS STOLE EVERYTHING! THERE WAS AN EARTHQUAKE! A TIDAL WAVE! A CALAMITY! SEND THEM BACK JUST GIVE US ANOTHER CHANCE, KUPO!”_

He paused a moment, looking out across the gathering before he gravely intoned, **“I hear truth in your words. Let it be known that further indolence shall be met with swift reprisal--and I shall be none too pleased to be roused from my rest by the likes of you rather than my chosen agents!”** And now for the hard part--the fire around which the moogles had gathered flared dangerously, drawing their attention with a dozen tinny shouts. When they looked back, he was gone.

* * *

G’raha didn’t take the time to dismiss the glamour, ducking into the cavern of Sohm Al as quickly as possible and just shucking out of his clothes. Biggs was already waiting for him, and stood from the small encampment they’d set up earlier, to make it look like they’d stopped for the night _outside_ of moogle territory but still close enough to avoid the dangers of the old dragon burial ground. “Did it work?”

“Perhaps a bit too well,” G’raha said, grinning. “Did you disable the projectors?”

“Aye, quick bit of work it was, throwing those together with regular old glamour prisms, but in the dead of night it ain’t so hard to make _open air_ I suppose.”

“Excellent. Now help me, I think I’m having an allergic reaction to this stuff.”

If G’raha’s skin looked a bit pink and raw and he seemed to have very _hurriedly_ covered up in his cloak, the guardsmoogle who drifted in a short time later didn’t seem to notice. “Uh, so, we’ve, um--we’d like to welcome you back to Moghome, kupo! As our esteemed guests! And we’ll take you to Zenith and help you call the dragons!”

“Oh,” G’raha said cheerfully, permitting himself just the slightest edge of a wicked smile, “we had hoped you might see reason.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this story is supposed to be serious, but G'raha vs. moogles would not be denied


	5. Nadir, Reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G'raha finally makes his way to Zenith to seek an audience with one of the Warrior of Light's most powerful allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up shortly after the previous one.

Zenith's aetheryte seemed functional as well, and G'raha caught himself attuning to it out of habit. Not that he'd risk using one in anything but an absolute emergency, with the world as it was.

"Alright, listen up, kupo!" The lead guardsmoogle who'd accompanied them stiffened his posture into something resembling attention, and produced a battered horn from the bag he wore. "This is supposed to get Hraesvelgr's attention! You go up top," he pointed, and G'raha craned his neck to look up at the enormous structure, "give it a toot, and he'll swoop down! But he hasn't seen any land dweller in years, not since right after the Taskmaster fell."

G'raha reached out to take the horn. "Have people come to see him, then?"

"A few, so the stories say! He spoke to them at first, but now… well, I hope you catch a glimpse of him and don't get eaten! Good luck, kupo!"

"That's not very reassuring," Biggs said. He held out a hand. "Give it to me, lad, and I'll call the wyrm. We can't risk you."

G'raha's grip on the horn tightened reflexively. "He won't harm us," he said.  


"How do you know that? The world's changed. Perhaps the dragons have, too."

He merely scowled at Biggs, holding the battered horn a bit tighter.  _ Because Hrasevelgr knows my loss _ was a corny answer. The dragon wouldn’t know him from a hole in the ground. He might not even have time to say his piece. He settled for, “I must do this,” and made his way toward the stairs.

Fortunately exploring the Tower had prepared him for  _ this _ monumental challenge. Regardless, they paused a moment at the top to catch their breath and compose themselves before calling the great wyrm, first impressions being everything. Finally G’raha straightened, took a deep breath, and called the wyrm.

After a long moment a mighty roar shook the platform, but no great dragon swooped from the skies. They waited, looking up, looking out, and eventually two shadows dotted the horizon. “Does that seem a bit small to you?” Biggs asked.

“It does,” G’raha said, putting the horn down. “Be ready for anything.”

An aevis and a true dragon landed, the latter perhaps the size of a large chocobo, the aevis moving awkwardly in the transition from flight to walking.  **_Sons of man, you would have words with Hrasevelgr?_ **

“Yes,” G’raha said, ears perking and hand leaving his bow. “We’ve come quite a long way to ask him--”

**_He speaks not to land dwellers,_ ** he assumed to be the true dragon, from the way their head moved at they spoke, almost gesturing.  **_But we will hear your plea and should we deem your words significant, we shall speak on your behalf._ **

It was better than nothing, at least. G'raha explained his errand once more, and Biggs the work they'd already completed. Though it was difficult to read their features G'raha got a distinct impression of shock from the two dragons. When he finished the true dragon took off, and the aevis-- _ changed. _ In a moment an elezen woman stood before him, clad in bronzed drachenmaille, and he sputtered in surprise--records made mention of the former second in command of the Knights Dragoon disappearing mysteriously, and that Aden had pursued her, but never what became of her. "Ser Truethrust, I presume?"

"Yes," she said, a little frown furrowing her brow. "Orn Khai is going to relay your message, but I would not hold out hope for Hraesvelgr to appear. He deigned to permit some few refuge here just after the Calamity, but since Vidofnir's death…" She shook her head, long hair falling around her shoulders. "I am truly sorry, but your trip here may have been for naught." Before his dejection had a chance to reach his expression she continued, "But there is something… someone else who may be able to assist you. One of Ser Dellebecque's allies from the war in Gyr Abania came to us with a group of those seeking refuge, and…. Well, now his message makes sense, I suppose. He knew you would come, one day."

"Who? And what do you mean by that?"

"Lord Stormcaller," she said. G'raha's ears canted forward, head tilting slightly. The name rang a bell, but he'd been hyuran, and it seemed impossible he might yet live--nor had their association been particularly close insofar as he could tell. "He told us that one day a man would come to us for your very purpose, and that we should tell him to 'seek me out at Final Peace'."

"Final Peace?"

"Aye, it’s a place up in the mountains closer to Gyr Abania,” Biggs explained. “High enough it was out of the way of the worst of things, and supposed to be a right pain to reach. But you hear tell of men trying all the time; they say it’s a garden of paradise. I’d say I don’t believe, but, well,” and he gestured at G’raha with an open hand.

G’raha smiled warmly at him, “You do have a bit of a thing for faerie stories. Rescuing princes from eternal slumber in towers and all that.”

“Well, I--” Biggs stammered a bit, face flushing, and turned away.

Heustienne regarded the two of them with a raised brow when G’raha looked back to her, but she didn’t say anything, thankfully. “Did he say why I’m to look for him?”

“That he will have three needful things for you,” she said. “Though I am still at a loss as to how he could know you were coming nearly two hundred years ago.”

_ Needful things _ could be left with a descendant, or hidden. “I can only assume he had knowledge of the Ironworks’ plan. Perhaps this is even part of it, though….” He looked over his shoulder at Biggs, who had composed himself in short order.

“Bloody mystery to me. Cid’s notes make no mention of him.” Biggs shrugged. “Perhaps it’s something meant only for you, and this was their way of keeping it secret.”

“It would stand to reason that I would need to research the correct moment to summon the Warrior of Light from, and that in doing so I would contact as many of his allies and visit as many of the places he had been as possible… The logic is sound, but it seems like a great risk on their part.”

The beating of wings signaled Orn Khai’s return, and he landed just a short distance behind Heustienne, politely angling his descent so as not to buffet the group.  **_I am sorry, weary travelers. He will speak with you not; but do not despair. I will see who I may recruit to argue your case._ **

“If you require aught of us,” Heustienne said, “please, do not hesitate to return. I think I speak for much of Hraesvelgr’s brood when I say that it would gladden our hearts to know that Aden had never fallen. Many of those they’ve lost might find themselves in different circumstances.”

**_And he was as one of our own,_ ** Orn Khai added.  **_Otherwise we would not have tried to answer his call._ **

“His call?” G’raha asked, shifting to look up at the true dragon.

Orn Khai made a low rumbling sound, almost a grumble, closing his eyes briefly. It reminded G’raha vaguely of the sort of disconcerted noise he’d heard Aden make a few times during their explorations, and he wondered if perhaps the dragon had some connection to him other than the obvious via association with Heustienne.  **_Have you told them?_ ** Heustienne nodded, and Orn Khai continued.  **_Have you time for a tale, sons of man?_ **

“I believe we have all the time that you require,” G’raha said, looking to Biggs for confirmation. The man nodded.

“Aye, it’s what we’re here for, is it not? Information.”

**_Then a tale I shall tell you, one pieced together by Vidofnir and the Stormcaller on their meeting here, of the final moments of the Warrior of Light._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And if you want to hear the story (plus a little more that the NPCs would not have known), check out chapter 9 of Wrought in Crystal!
> 
>  _But wait_ , who is this other character mentioned? The actual most self-indulgent thing I'm doing in this entire series: my alt has a cameo.
> 
> Released these before I intended to because I'm very sick right now, and it makes me feel just a smidge better to unleash this stuff into the wild.


	6. Stormcaller, I Presume?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G'raha sets off in search of three needful things--foolishly, bravely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, my alt makes the damn cameo. This will be a multi-part section.
> 
> You can yell at me on twitter @AStormcalled, on tumblr @dellebecque

To call Gyr Abania a blighted wasteland might be too _generous_. The first time G’raha crossed the crumbling remnants of the wall was by airship, and he leaned over the railing watching the patches of verdance scattered across the shriveled scrub of the Black Shroud like mange give way to dried, cracked earth, then fine sand growing paler and paler, and finally scoured stone and heavy wind as aether naturally flowed towards the lower concentration. 

They turned back before the turbulence grew too terrible, angling in towards the mountains and gaining altitude. He moved to the other side of the deck, staring out into carved cliffs and spires of stone leeched of all color. Somewhere out there past the horizon, past the remains of the city, just beyond what had been the border with Garlemald, lay the final resting place of the Warrior of Light. Supposedly even today it remained dangerous to venture into, rapidly sickening any foolhardy enough to do so. Supposedly Aden's body still lay there, as did those of the Scions and every soldier slain on the field of battle, unable to decompose for lack of any natural force that might aid the process. Perhaps one day, when the land was no longer utterly bereft of life and aether no longer stagnant like a fetid pool.

G'raha's hand tightened around the railing. That day might never come.

They scoured the mountains as long as they dared, searching for anything that might indicate the existence of this mysterious valley, but to no avail before they turned back towards the remnants of Gridania to refuel.

* * *

They put it off in favor of other projects. The installation in the Tower was nearing completion, and they needed him to help with some systems calibration since no one else could control the megastructure. There were more files to go through, old things about the Scions, one of the secretary’s ledgers--they told him new things, about places Aden had been, but not what he’d done there. A sudden influx of gil recorded in the ledger sourced only by the name _Genbu_ caught his interest, but nothing so much as this promise of _needful things_ from a man long-dead who by all accounts should _not_ have known about Cid’s plan.

The man had been there when Aden died, though. And he had no reason to doubt the story the dragons had told him, which meant this Stormcaller had been _the only survivor of the initial blast area_. He couldn’t imagine what it might have done to him, what quality of life he would’ve had afterwards, if it’d slowly poisoned him…. G’raha shuddered to imagine it. He’d wish such a fate on no one.

Finally he could stand it no longer. As soon as they’d completed this phase of retrofitting the Tower and no longer had immediate need of him, he snuck away leaving only a note on Biggs’ desk. They wouldn’t let him go otherwise, and couldn’t spare the personnel after recent losses.

The less said of his journey alone through the remnants of the Black Shroud and into Gyr Abania the better. In blood and tears he learned the true nature of life in this time and place, things he had _known_ and seen at a distance, read in the dwindling number of Ironworks members, things he now _understood._ G'raha learned why even those who seemed to have some semblance of peace made the choices they made, why they would throw away their future for the past of a hero.

In chains in the camp of a keeper clan he asked himself _what would Aden do_ and strangled his guards in the middle of the night. He played the lute he'd stealthily liberated from the Tower for refugees before passing from their company, bringing them the tiniest spark of light in their bleak existence of foraging and slowly dying from the lingering poison in the land of the Black Rose. He stood on a lonely cliff at the base of the mountains, looking out over the blighted waste he’d seen from the airship, and thought about how few children he’d met in his journey, while a peddler bent-backed before her time adjusted the weight on her chocobo, and the weight of her own pack, before beckoning him to follow her.

She led him on the long, precipitous path to a high pass over a number of days. At the top they scrambled over a rockfall on the path. Several times he thought she or her bird might turn an ankle or worse, but they made it to the other side, and crossed the ridgeline. G’raha stopped there as if he’d hit a wall, utterly transfixed by the impossible scene before him.

The bowl of the valley below _exploded_ in greenery. Lush forests covered the near end, and beyond them swathes of what appeared to be farmland cut across what _should_ have been cold, barren rock. A few buildings dotted the landscape, and to the south at the base of a cliff stood a gathering of them that _almost_ resembled a small town. He took a step and the biting wind died, turned sweet and laden with the delightful scents of a wood in full blush of summer. A weak, needy sound escaped him before he realized it.

“Never gets old,” the peddler said, grinning, and she began the descent.

* * *

"--here to see Lord Stormcaller.” The peddler’s voice snapped his attention away from the swaying boughs and dappled sunlight, from thoughts of a time long-lost. Perhaps if he could find a book…. But no, it would only remind him of the last time he’d snatched a few hours on a lazy afternoon with a book under a tree, and on whose shoulder he’d fallen asleep. “Not to petition for sanctuary.”

G’raha cleared his throat softly, a bit parched after the long walk through high desert. “I should be expected.”

The solid, towering wall of a highlander looked down at G’raha, one hand on the sword at his hip, scrutinizing him. Rather than be intimidated G’raha met his gaze neutrally, unimpressed, despite his anxiety. He’d traveled long and suffered much, and nothing would keep him from his goal now--but if they turned him away now he didn’t know what to do next. “I doubt it,” the man said.

“Tell him G’raha Tia is here,” he responded, “for three needful things.”

The man grunted, rolled his eyes, and looked back to the peddler. “You can set up in the usual place.” He left with no further trouble, and the peddler gestured for G’raha to follow her once more.

“He won’t see you,” she said over her shoulder as the cart path opened up. “He doesn’t deal with outsiders. Were you Mhigan, perhaps.” She shrugged. “But Tessa might.”

“Tessa?” he asked, hurrying his pace to keep up with her lanky highlander stride.

“His voice. Tessa speaks for him.” A representative of sorts--he filed that away for later use. “Dwell here for a time and perhaps he will see you, but less than that--no. He is secretive, and the villagers are protective of him. You will see why.”

“I believe I already see why.”

She nodded, grinning again. “Perhaps! They say the green and growing things are his doing.” The cart path widened as they passed out from under the trees and into the village. Every building seemed a humble size, the exterior covered in some pale substance like stucco, but he noticed the deep imprint of different kinds of leaves and smiled at the artful touch. They turned a corner onto what seemed to be the main thoroughfare out to the fields, and the peddler gently knocked at his shoulder with her hand. G’raha turned and looked in the direction she pointed, ears going lax and eyes widening in wonder.

Sunk into the cliff face stood what seemed to be the facade of a manor house, with a broad porch and many windows, “That must have taken quite some time to carve out,” he murmured.

“They say he shaped it from the living stone. You should have a closer look later--there is not a single chisel mark on the whole of it.” She sounded proud, but G’raha’s mind reeled with the implication. After receiving Salina’s knowledge he knew precisely how _difficult_ such a feat was, and he doubted the truth of it but kept that to himself.

But perhaps he could turn that information for more. “He must be quite powerful, for a mage to accomplish such a feat in this day and age.” It would only benefit him to know more of the heir of Lord Stormcaller, especially should his entreaty fall on ears unfamiliar with the wording.

She laughed as G’raha followed her to a small square around a space of greenery and a sprawling old tree. “Oh, no, he did that long ago--before _I_ was born.” G’raha missed a step at the implication but recovered before he tripped. Perhaps the heirs all looked similar enough to perpetuate a fiction of being the same man, or perhaps…. He turned towards the stone facade at the end of the village, staring as if it might reveal its secrets to him if he only looked hard enough.

“It may be a while before Gilford returns with a response, if he returns at all. Help me, would you?”

Around a bell later G’raha took off the lute case, his bow and quiver, and dropped them in the grass under the tree in the square. He shook out his cloak and settled down leaning against the tree, and took the lute out of the case. Fingers traced the curve of it, the inlay, gently ran down the neck as always--and as always he remembered the first time he’d seen it, the private concert he’d played for a man who had merely been his friend. Then the second time he’d seen it, nestled up against that same man, fingers over his as he taught him a very simple tune. G’raha’s hands fell into it, and he curled over the lute possessively, as always. Oh, if only he had seen as clearly then as he did now. If he had known his own heart.

Would the world be a different place if he had possessed the wisdom and strength to reach out his hand?

He tuned the lute and let the soft sounds drown out his anxieties and his heartache. A pair of birds lighted in the tree and chirped curiously at him. People came and went looking at the peddler’s wares, and he realized the large building immediately behind her was a temple of Rhalgr based on the conversation the man who came out had with her. Several stopped and listened, but G’raha did little more than look up and give them soft, neutral smiles. He needed a distraction, but he didn’t feel terrible much like talking.

“Pardon stranger,” one finally said as the idle fancy under his fingers faded out. “Could I trouble you to--ah, well.” The midlander tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear, and G’raha noted she _seemed_ to be showing the very first swell of a babe. “My sister’s to be bonded tonight, might you be willing to play at the feast after? I can pay you, if you’re passing through.”

G’raha’s ears perked, and he smiled in spite of his melancholy mood. “I’ve seen little enough cause for celebration of late, so I should be glad to do so. I fear my repertoire lacks breadth, though.”

“I’m afraid we’ve very few musicians or instrument makers, so I’ll be happy with whatever you’re willing to play.” She gave him directions, and then left after thanking him profusely once more. G’raha watched her go, bemused by the whole interaction.

* * *

G’raha arrived early because he had little else to do, having walked the length and breadth of town and wandered out into the fields some. Strangely the village had a book shop, small, quaint, and with nothing of particular note but their own typesetting machine. He spent a while talking with the owner about how much and what sort of business they saw--little and less, mostly religious tracts, because literacy was dying out outside the protective ring of their mountains but men could yet spell the name of Rhalgr, and the odd grimoire. He received a little booklet of folk songs for his conversation, and carefully placed the fragile thing in his pack. But now he found himself at the house, and the sister showed him around to the back where they’d set up tables and chairs and strings of tiny crystals among the trees. As the sun set and the guests gathered it became an enchanted sylvan glade, the sweet, restful energy he’d felt under the tree in the square transformed by the party’s atmosphere. Not only was the land replete with aether here, it felt _good_ , like a home long cultivated in cherished love.

He played for them, the few reels he knew and the few love songs, and improvised otherwise. He didn’t sing--that instrument wasn’t for hire--but they laughed and they danced and they cheered all the same, and it did his heart good to see people happy.

It hurt to think what he’d do to them, this newlywed couple, the babe in the sister’s belly, if he succeeded--but now he wondered what they’d say if they knew. What terrible things might have driven them here, and if they’d give it all up like the others he’d asked outside this untouched place.

The night drew on and the guests bade him take a break and plied him with food and drink--which G’raha gladly accepted. _Feast_ was perhaps a generous term to use, but they had more food than he’d seen anywhere else. Someone stood to make room at the end of a table, and he took the place with a murmur of thanks.

The lady who’d vacated it leaned against the edge of the table and crossed her arms, peering down at him. “You’re that bard traveling about gathering stories about the Warrior of Light, aren’t you?”

 _Bard_ seemed rather generous, but he supposed be looked the part. G’raha looked up at her and smiled in reply. “I am. Have you a tale of note?”

She smirked, gaze flicking past him for just a split second. “A tale and more. Three needful things.” G’raha sat bolt upright in his chair, ears all but pointed forward and tail fluffed out behind him. He quickly took in the details of her he’d glossed over before, a midlander of middling height and a middling Mhigan complexion, the furs and leathers she wore, the messy sweep of black hair, her angular features and piercing green eyes. She matched no description he knew, but he wagered a guess based on the peddler’s earlier words. “Enjoy your meal, my honored ancestor will speak with you when we depart.”

“Is he here?”

She smiled enigmatically, and stepped away to make rounds of greeting people at the feast. G’raha watched her, tail twitching with the intensity of his attention, until someone rapped softly on the table. He turned his attention to the seat next to him, still a bit shaken—

“Merrick Stormcaller, I presume?” G’raha felt rather _proud_ of how steady he kept his voice. Because _surely_ this was no one but the man himself, pulled from the prints on those old newspaper clippings. He wore furs and leathers as the woman did, the cut strangely refined, his complexion much the same, and in the dim mixed-color light of the crystal strings his mid-length hair looked bloody--G’raha had a strange though, suddenly, but it fled as he noticed the man’s eyes. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the deep emerald seemed devoid of all pupils, looking instead like cut gems. His features were angular like the woman’s, but somehow fey, otherworldly. To live so long and look so _startlingly_ unchanged he could not be human, and up close he looked it.

Merrick inclined his head and laid one gloved hand against his chest in a shallow mock-bow. “It really is you, then, not a descendant.” Merrick nodded, settling his hands on the table. G’raha noted nothing sat on his plate, but a glass of some dark liquor stood at hand. “How?”

After a second’s hesitation Merrick lifted his hands from the table and made a series of short, fluid gestures which G’raha recognized as sign language, but did not understand. G’raha’s ears shifted forward, then to the side and down slightly. “You’re mute.”

Merrick made a gesture he _did_ understand, lifting one hand to bump the heel of his palm off his own head. “My apologies,” G’raha quickly added. “I meant no offense. I merely did not expect--I did not expect you to be _you_ , let alone… like this.”

The midlander nodded his understanding, and gestured dismissively with one hand before pointing at G’raha’s plate. Then he stood, taking the glass of liquor with him, and went off presumably after the young woman. G’raha resisted the urge to bang his head against the table, but he did mutter, “ _Idiot_ ,” under his breath.


	7. Three Needful Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G'raha finds his three needful things, and they are not in the slightest what he anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can yell at me on twitter @AStormcalled or tumblr @dellebecque

They made their way through the village quite late at night, G'raha weary in body but wide awake, staring in contemplation at the back of Stormcaller's head. On the way the young woman introduced herself as, "Testaria Stormcaller, but you may call me Tessa," with a charming bow, and he noted that her poise and posture indicated martial training. "I speak for my honored ancestor that all may know his words."

"'Tis a pleasure," G'raha replied. "But I must ask--I knew you expected me, but… how?"

"It is somewhat difficult to give his words voice while walking and in the dark." He saw her smile in the warm light spilling from a window as they passed a cheery little home. "I expect you are exhausted after you trip here and the long day. Speaking tomorrow would be best."

"It was indeed a long and exhausting trip, but I should rest easier knowing my goal has been accomplished."

“Driven, of course. He said to expect as much. Allow me to put it another way.” He caught her expression and motions in snatches of window and lantern light. She laid a hand to her breast, and inclined her upper body slightly in his direction. “ _I_ am exhausted after three bells of dancing and socializing. I am led to believe this will be a very lengthy conversation, and if I am to be my honored ancestor’s voice, ‘twould be best I not _doze off_ in the middle.”

G’raha scowled, not _quite_ his pout of old, and he managed, “I understand. I suppose one more day will matter very little.”

“I appreciate your patience.” Something in her tone irked him vaguely, an edge that _could_ be sarcasm, but sounded little like the sarcasm he was used to, rather something he only ever heard out of Ala Mhigans who had grown up in the culture.

The doors carved into the cliff face led into an interior that might as well be a spacious manor home. Carpets and wall hangings softened hard stone, old but immaculately cared for. Many of the furnishings seemed so as well, lacking the rustic, unrefined quality of those constructed in modernity--things built with an eye to the fact that they need not last long. He felt for a moment as if he’d stepped back in time, and he supposed that made a strange sort of sense.

Tessa showed him to a private room, more spacious and richly appointed than anything he’d seen in his entire time in this dreadful tomorrow. “The rest of the family is away at the moment, so you have run of the house if you like.” She provided directions to other rooms of interest, and let him be.

It felt surpassing strange to dwell alone in comfort, even for a single night--all his life G’raha possessed no space to himself, crammed into dormitories with other students or sharing tents at research sites. Even as a babe, though the less he recalled of that time the happier he’d be. Regardless he wondered what had become of his tribe, of the father who had wanted more for his son marked by legacy than a life of fighting and rutting and living only to pass on the eye. Surely by now G’raha had surpassed his father’s wildest imaginings.

A mix of exhaustion and anticipation produced an unwholesome buzzing sensation inside his skull, and he remained restless into early hours. G'raha woke multiple times the next day, knowing with each that he should rise but blinking back to sleep before he managed it. He finally woke at what must be some dreadfully late hour, muzzy headed and dull, aching everywhere. He growled in frustration, slowly realizing he was in no state to interrogate Stormcaller until his head cleared. Regardless, he needed to make some sort of appearance to his host and perhaps explain himself, so he dragged himself out of bed and gathered himself into a degree of presentability.

The washroom contained a full mirror, and the dark smudges between his markings and his eyes gave him pause. He barely recognized the man there: haggard, a little leaner, a little harder. His hair had grown back out some, and he slowly swept it into a tuck bun, more than usual dangling out. Over the past… _however_ long it had been he rarely stopped long enough to pay any mind, but seeing himself now he wondered if there would be enough _left_ of him to see this mad plan through.

In the hall outside he nearly ran straight into Tessa. “My apologies!” She put a hand out, but didn’t quite touch him. G’raha _didn’t_ apologize, just looked up at her a bit blankly. “Ah,” she smiled down at him. “Your trip through Gyr Abania finally catching up to you? You’re made of sterner stuff than you look, for it to wait until you’re safe here. But don’t worry; it passes. Usually.” She took a step back from him and gestured down the hall. “Lunch should be laid out, if you like.”

“Thank you.” G’raha took his leave of her and made his way in the direction she’d gestured with little mind for his rich surroundings. Instead he turned inward, musing on her words. It stood to reason the aether-poor environment of Gyr Abania might tax a body, and explained the high rate of sickness he’d seen along the way. Never had he considered himself _made of sterner stuff_ but... willful, perhaps.

Was there any difference?

He wandered his way to a warmly appointed dining room, though by size he hesitated to call it _cozy_ \--informal, certainly, with the distinct air of a place in which a family often gathered. Lord Stormcaller himself finished up laying out the meal, wearing an alarmingly frilly lilac-colored apron over his clothes. A laugh exploded out of G’raha before his mind caught up to him. He sagged against the door frame, shaking with mirth, head swimming. Something about the sight struck him as _immensely_ incongruous, held against all of the information he’d managed to gather about Stormcaller--and yet here he was. “Forgive me,” he choked out, forcing himself into some semblance of calm. G’raha wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, and found Merrick standing in the same spot, watching him keenly with the smallest hint of a smile. The man began to gesture then caught himself and waved dismissively. Instead he lifted one hand to his temple, then pointed at G’raha.

He caught the meaning well enough. “Yes, but it will pass. I would ask if I truly look that awful but I’ve seen myself this morning.” Merrick beckoned him over. G’raha hesitated, but pulled away from the doorframe and rounded the table to join him. Meanwhile Merrick pulled out the chair on that side of the table and gestured for G’raha to sit. He expected some retribution for his laughter, but complied with his host’s wishes. When Merrick’s fingertips settled over his temples he stiffened in his seat, then a gentle wash of healing magic that chased away the throb between his eyes relaxed him back into the chair. Though he possessed little skill with magic he knew the way the various manifestations _felt_ , recognized this was _not_ conjury or astromancy. It felt almost as if some great presence reached into him and smoothed over the raw edges of his aether, poured a little strength back into him, and then withdrew leaving him with the vague impressions of a summer rain shower and a whiff of ozone.

“Thank you.” Merrick rounded the table to settle into the chair at the head, merely nodding in reply. He gestured at the spread on the table, indicating G’raha should feel free to begin eating. 

While he served himself Tessa arrived, and stopped in the doorway as he had, staring at Merrick. The man looked up at her, made a short series of gestures, and she responded in kind. Then Merrick pushed back from the table, leaving through the opposite door. Tessa sat opposite G’raha, grinning, and began serving herself. “He wore that thing on purpose to get a rise out of you,” she said, voice full of mirth. “My sister made that for him when we were children.”

 _To get a rise out of him_ \--but why? “You mentioned last night the family is away?” 

“Our clan has made our purpose keeping the memory of Ala Mhigo alive, wherever our people roam.” Her eyes flashed fierce and proud before her expression softened. “But my sister is a tailor in Ul’dah.”

G’raha tried very hard to conceal his surprise, and his distress. A _tailor_ in Ul’dah--it sounded so normal. Here again those making the best of their lives in this bleak future confronted him, and he faltered at the thought of what he meant to _do_ to them. “Do you know why I am here?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she said. “Only that our honored ancestor has been waiting for you for a long time.”

His grip around his fork tightened painfully, the smooth metal digging into his flesh and he struggled to breathe calmly. “I’m--”

The pointedly loud scrape of Stormcaller’s chair interrupted him, and he gestured for Tessa’s attention as he sat down. Absent the filly apron and grim faced he made a series of gestures at her, then Tessa turned back to G’raha. “We’re not to discuss your purpose here until after we’ve eaten,” she translated. “It will be a difficult conversation.”

A bitter laugh escaped him before he thought to contain it, and G’raha shook his head, but he did as his host bade. Reluctantly he tucked into lunch--his breakfast--full of nerves and dark melancholy. Aden had made hard choices, surely, but he didn’t _sacrifice_ one person for another, let alone _a whole world_ for one person. This time when he asked himself, what would Aden do? He knew the answer. And yet he could not abide this world without him.

Did he and the Ironworks have the _right_ to do this?

After a few bites the food proved an incredible distraction. The ingredients were fresh and simple as they’d been the night before at the wedding reception, but prepared in a _delectable_ manner. He hadn’t had anything this good since… 

Since....

 _Ever_ , to be quite honest. He’d been sent away young, and raised in close quarters in Sharlayan on the nation’s infamously bland cuisine. Then his time in Eorzea had been dreadfully short, and now at the end of all things there was little to spare. G’raha found himself _ravenous_ , and knew in part his body sought to replenish itself after his long trek through aether-poor lands. But something else in him hungered, too, for the _comfort_ of a pleasant taste and a full belly. He took seconds, and a little bit of thirds, greedily heedless of Stormcaller and Tessa’s silent conversation over dinner. But he caught from the corner of his eye her alarmed gaze darting to him at one point, and his own slid towards Merrick. The man--was he yet a man?--looked serene. He could only hope Stormcaller explained his purpose to Tessa, that he need not break the terrible news that he meant to _wipe her world from existence._

They both finished before him, but G’raha found he didn’t care. If they offered him this hospitality and insisted he bide his time, he meant to seize the former so thoroughly they regretted the latter. Petty, perhaps, but he was _nothing_ if not occasionally petty. At length he finished, pushing his plate away.

Testaria stood and crossed to a liquor cabinet against one wall, where she retrieved a truly ancient bottle of Limsan rum and two glasses. She poured for each of them, and G’raha realized once again despite a place set before him Stormcaller had eaten nothing, merely kept a glass of liquor at hand. Once Tessa resumed her seat Merrick made a series of gestures to her, then turned and raised his glass to G’raha.

“To your success,” Testaria said, “and that we will both get off this wretched ride one way or another.”

G’raha almost choked on his first sip at that. Merrick canted the glass in his hand, and regarded G’raha with a look equal parts assessment and leer. After an uncomfortably long moment he gestured with one one hand, beckoning G’raha to ask questions.

“How did you know I would come?” It bothered him most of all, even though the answer was obvious--but not _once_ did a _single_ Ironworks record make mention of the man.

Merrick’s lips drew into a thin line, and he inclined his head very slightly to one side. He put down his glass and spoke with his hands, and Tessa translated. “In the early days I went to Cid nan Garlond, for I knew not where else to go with Aden and all his allies dead, and much of the command structure and populace of Ala Mhigo wiped from the face of hydaelyn. Loathe as I was to make peace with Garleans, he and Nero were all that remained. They told me of the Crystal Tower expedition, shared with me all the details of their research. I assisted them with many of the more abstracted concepts, particularly those for transporting the Tower wholesale across the Rift, alongside Omega.”

“Cid’s notes make no mention of you whatsoever.”

A smirk stole across Merrick’s face. “Of course not. My true contribution to the project was one you could never know of unless you sought me out. It was essential.”

“That being?” G’raha leaned forward in his seat, pressing his elbows against the table.

“Cid’s plan will require you to cross the Rift alone,” he leaned forward slightly as he spoke, hands moving faster, “and then to draw Aden across. The ritual necessary to accomplish the latter will take lifetimes to conceive of and implement. I have begun the work for you. I have also determined the correct _time_ from which to draw him for optimal chance of success.”

G’raha stammered, trying to formulate a response, some hot, ugly emotion rising in him as he rose to his feet, chair shoved roughly from the table. “You--but then all this-- _if you were doing this_ why have I been wasting _time_?”

Merrick refilled his glass, taking his time, letting G’raha stew in his anger. Testaria looked between them, fingers flexing as if she meant to reach for a weapon. Only after he had drained his glass again did Merrick continue.

“I said I had _begun_ the work, not completed it. Much of it is beyond me; only you, with your connection to the Tower, and intimate knowledge of the location to which you mean to draw him, and the unique insights your journey will grant you, can finish this work. As to the time,” he gestured for G’raha to sit, but he refused, hands balling into fists at his sides. Merrick looked him up and down and smiled smugly. “Very good. You may have a chance at this.”

He took G’raha’s glass and topped it off before scooting it back towards him. “The time is by far the least challenging thing about all of this. ‘Twas easy enough for me to determine because I was _present_. _Time_ is not the only thing you have been researching though, is it? Tell me, _why_ did you agree to this and _why_ are you so committed to it, knowing that it will snuff out the existence of everyone and everything that yet lives, and unmake you in the process?”

Merrick folded his hands, leaning forward expectantly. G’raha examined him for any hint of the expected answer, lips twisting into a scowl as he did so. “For the future we should have had,” he said, “for all the lives destroyed on that other star, and for the lives these people _should_ be living.”

“That is why it _should_ be done,” Merrick said, “the goal for which we all strive. But it is not _your_ truth. It cannot be, if you are to succeed. Your motivation is vital, especially to the success of this spell. Why do you want to save the Warrior of Light?”

He looked away, “I cannot say this, not to you.”

“The reason Cid made no mention of my work is that I am to test you, G’raha. Everything you have done has been for a purpose. But this will not succeed without one vital element over which we had no control, nor could we judge in formulae. You must tell me, if I am to impart to you all that I have learned.”

G’raha clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, fighting back tears. He had never said the words aloud, and so long as he kept this truth to himself he need not face the full weight of his grief. The truth he had realized on seeing those cold, dead images. This quiet, soft flame he nurtured in the most sorrowful depths of his heart would rise to an inferno if he had to _say_ it, one he could never quench, which would sear everything between him and Aden’s salvation. Once these words passed his lips there would be no turning back, and he _knew_ it. He would be responsible for the utter annihilation of every individual living in this time--for snuffing them from existence ere they came into being. Because he could not speak the truth in his heart and not then live it.

How alike they had been, and how different. Aden would sacrifice himself for a world; G’raha would sacrifice a world for Aden.

“I love him.” Whispered, sing-song, a roll of tears and a swell of passion beneath it.

“I’m sorry, what? You’ll have to speak up.” Tessa’s voice failed to convey the mocking look he _knew_ Stormcaller wore. G’raha _seethed_ at that, that somehow this _arse_ knew _exactly_ what he was doing. Well, he’d give them what they wanted--it was too late now anyroad.

“I love him!” G’raha shouted, opening his eyes and turning back to glower at the bastard of a man seated at the head of the table. “He was the greatest friend I have ever had, knew all that I had been through in his own heart in effect if not in deed, and I admired and envied everything that he was, and he answered me not with the patronizing concern or dismissal others did. He truly believed I could be both all that I was and all that I desired, and encouraged me to work for it, to be a hero as he was. I thought I was being a hero when I sealed the Tower but I was a _bloody idiot!_ Not a moment passes that I don’t regret sealing myself in the Tower and denying myself the chance to be by his side. _I love him_ , and I would do anything to… to…” He sat back down, hard, and buried his face in his hands. “I can’t let him go like that. Not like that. Not laying down like a babe going to sleep and staring sightlessly up into the firmament for eternity, unable to be buried or to _rot_ or to simply _cease._ Not like that.”

“Good,” came Testaria’s voice, soft. “Nothing short of total devotion will do for your great work. From now on, everything you do you must do in love--whether it be compassion for those who rely on you, or love for him. Permit yourself no selfish desires but this: that you will see him again one day.” They gave him a moment to wring out his sorrow, though when he looked up his face was still tear-streaked. “But you must also know the shape of his soul so intimately that you can pluck it from the twisted skein of fate. When he died, he was not the man you knew, and you must love the man he became, not only the man he was. You have journeyed far and wide to learn that shape, and we can only pray it is enough.”

“And what of those who have made lives for themselves?” G’raha asked bitterly. “Those who have made the best of their circumstances?”

“What you glimpse is but a breath’s span of time. I assure you, in a generation or two there will be no one making lives for themselves. Only scavengers, hunters, and prey will remain.” Merrick’s expression softened, and the pace of his gestures slowed slightly. “Would you agree that there is no more idyllic place left on the face of hydaelyn?”

“At first blush, yes.” G’raha spared not the energy for a nod, newly wrung out by his admission, the fire in his breast too hot to acknowledge.

“And yet if you asked any one of them, they would leap at the chance to support your cause. They know even this place is ephemeral. We are living on borrowed time, which only you may rectify.”

The weight of his own words bowed G’raha, and he braced his elbows against his thighs, staring down at the floor. He hardly processed anything his eyes saw. “How did you survive.” Not a question, an _accusation,_ blame ugly and dark within him now that he had unleashed the truth at the core of his passion. ‘Why did you not save him.”

Tessa hesitated much longer than normal, more than merely waiting for Stormcaller to get slightly ahead of her. “I tried, by the Twelve I tried. I would not have called him a friend at the time, because I was an angry fool, but he was. If you have visited Zenith, as your words indicated earlier, then you have heard the story.” They paused again, and G’raha didn’t look up, barely acknowledging Merrick’s words. “The magics for which I was famed and the name my family derives from them are rooted in a terrible source. At the end of the War of Magi my ancestors thought to bind a dying elemental in the manner the Mhachi used upon voidsent. The particulars are unimportant, but the entity to which I am bound withdrew me physically, which I had not known it capable of. Ala Mhigo, where it lie, was not safe either. I took it into myself to save the both of us, though the Black Rose still stole my voice and my ability to fight with a sword.” G’raha dragged his head up to stare blearily at Merrick, found his hands briefly folded on the table, a pinched look on his face. It was the most human his fey features had appeared since G’raha had met him. “I was the only survivor at ground zero. Though reports will make little mention of it.”

“And I am a tool,” G’raha’s voice rang strangely hollow in his own ears, “by which you mean to atone for the sin of living, though you will condemn me to a similar fate to achieve it.”

Merrick straightened in his chair, sitting back, and regarded G’raha appraisingly once more. “Yes. But in the end you will be reunited with the man you love, if only just long enough to save him. I cannot promise you that he will not hate you if he learns what it took to get you to him. That in his own deep despair he will not resent being saved, for there was much darkness in him in the end. But he will live, and you will be there.”

G’raha turned away once more, and whispered, “And I will atone for my own folly in abandoning him.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, G’raha’s mind churning with all this information, the scholarly, detached part of his brain already formulating a new trajectory, a new purpose. He did _not_ know the full shape of who Aden had become, which meant he must continue his journey until he had. Continue forcing himself through reams of mundane records and meticulously written mission reports and gut-wrenching personal accounts. G’raha buried his face in his hands with a groan. At this rate he’d be _old_ and _gray_ before they ever sent the Tower across. “And your three needful things?”

“My research,” Merrick answered. “The test. And the third, I cannot give you until you are about to cross. It is… too precious. And I fear as you are it might break you. As such, I will be returning with you to the Ironworks to aid in their work until such a time.”

G’raha responded with a noncommittal grunt, and sat up just enough to strain towards the table and snatch his still-full glass of rum. He downed the whole thing in one go.


	8. Crystalline Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G'raha mulls over the challenge Lord Stormcaller has set before him, and thinks back on his foray into Ishgard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought it was abandoned but it's NOT! I've just been really busy with Perfect and with class. This is unedited because I have no patience right now, so minor changes may occur.

Merrick parted ways with them in the foothills of the mountains, stating he needed to find an old friend, leaving G’raha and Testaria to make the trip back to the Ironworks alone. They found much less trouble together than G’raha had alone--the massive greatsword Tessa carried certainly had something to do with that, more visually intimidating than G’raha’s bow. They straggled into Mor Dhona only a little worse for wear.

Tessa stopped in her tracks the moment the Crystal Tower came into view. “Rhalgr’s thundering balls, that’s--that’s bigger than I thought it’d be.”

“Everyone has that reaction,” G’raha said with a grin, then corrected himself, “--except Aden. I heard all he said was, “Where’d they find all that damn crystal?” Which is a good question, in retrospect. Since the Tower is one continuous piece it implies a catastrophic event in a single place that produced uncorrupted crystal, unlike the large crystal outgrowths from the last two Calamities--” He faltered, looking away, ears flicking backwards.

“It’s alright,” Tessa said, stepping a little closer.

“I forget, sometimes, for just a moment-- _ when _ I am, what’s happened. Centuries have passed, but it’s barely been  _ moons _ to me.” His gaze sought the Tower, dominating the horizon of Mor Dhona. “Every time I see it, I think of him. I feel like--” G’raha cut himself off once more, teeth grazing his lip like a  _ threat _ to shut himself up.

“Like you’re going to walk in and see him?” Tessa asked, inclining her head forward slightly. “I still feel that way about…  _ everyone _ . For a moment it feels like everything’s alright, and it’ll all go back to normal, until it hits you that it won’t--the people you lost are gone. It gets less frequent, but it never goes away.” She took a deep breath, looking up at the Tower. “It must be worse for you--you remember when the world wasn’t dying by ilms. I’ve walked in on Merrick having conversations with people who aren’t there. His old apprentice, usually--but your Aden, too. I’ve always wondered if it helps, or if he’s just losing himself. He’s so old at this point, seen so many things, it’s hard to tell.”

Tessa’s words conjured up the mental image of Merrick talking to himself in gestures and expressions as they started moving, and G’raha spared a soft, joyless laugh at the thought that Aden would have understood that language of gesture without ever knowing it. “Perhaps I should try it,” he said, as if he hadn’t already had a hundred conversations with Aden in his mind--but none of them  _ new _ , only things he could have said and didn’t, and silent thanks for the unintentional help he’d left behind.

They passed through the shattered remnants of Revnant’s Toll, devastated by a Garlean bombardment ages ago and occupied only by drifters and ghosts, the sound of wind whistling through ruins filling the space between them. At length Tessa said, “You can finish, if you like. What you were explaining about the crystal.”

“I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

“You were interested,” she said, voice softening. “It’s nice to hear someone talk about something other than how terrible everything is. It reminds me--things weren’t always like they are now.”

So he did.

* * *

“...only the one airship right now, and I’d hesitate to send it so far--there’s no guarantee of fuel. We haven’t heard from Thavnair in two years now.”

“And going over old Garlemald is out of the question. The raiders out there will shoot anything down for scrap to keep their warmachina running.” Tessa planted her elbow against the table and settled her cheek into her palm, lips twisted in frustration before she continued. “I don’t suppose that route has opened up by boat, has it?”

Biggs and Tessa sat at a table in the bunker that passed for the Irownworks’ headquarters. Though the conversation was ostensibly about him and another mad quest, G’raha had yet to touch the third chair at the table, drawn instead towards the window. While the others discussed logistics of getting him to the farthest ends of the world G’raha watched ashy clouds spit gray rain that drooled thickly down the reinforced glass.

Since returning from Gyr Abania he’d spent his time assisting with the refitting of the Tower and researching by turns, killing time until Lord Stormcaller arrived. But time was something they had precious little of--and no way to know when it may  _ truly _ begin running out. In the time since his return from Gyr Abania G’raha had come to know the fine white ash slowly creeping across Eorzea for what it was. Since his awakening each rain grew further and further apart, the water thicker and thicker with that ash until now it fell as a pale gray slurry. Soon the rain might stop altogether, but they could not know.

Briefly his mind drifted back to a happier time, to rain pounding against canvas while he reviewed the contents of tomestones, a solid warmth at his back that he’d barely noticed then--and now dug his fingers into his palms. What an idiot he’d been. What an idiot he was  _ now _ , to look back like this and wish he’d known then what truly lay in his heart. Knowing the depths of his own feelings would only have mucked things up, and it was far better to have these memories of Aden, his friend.

_ From now on, everything you do you must do in love. _

He  _ loved _ Aden, but he struggled to fathom that--to do everything out of love, to bend his mind and his heart wholly towards it. To surrender himself utterly not to the man he had known, but the man he only knew of--the man Aden had become. Leaning against the windowsill G’raha closed his eyes, ears trained on the heavy rain, and let his mind drift.

* * *

Biggs flung open the door of the manor and light poured in around him. G’raha blinked against the brightness, then ducked instinctively as he heard another projectile whizz overhead while rushing through the door. “This way.” Before he could do more than subconsciously register the impact nearby they were running for the stairs that led down from the Last Vigil towards what had once been the Jeweled Crozier. 

With his long stride Biggs pulled ahead, and G’raha’s ears swiveled constantly in the chaos, trying to plot the distance of each sound: small arms fire, what might’ve been a draconic roar.. He skidded to a stop half a breath before a large projectile slammed into the roof of Haillenarte manor and sent the spire crashing to the ground across the top of the stairs. He lost Biggs in choking smoke and dust, and the stairs groaned ominously. “Are you alright?” he called out, resisting a cough at the acrid smoke.

“In one piece!” Biggs answered, and G’raha’s shoulders fell as some of the tension eased out of him. “There’s no getting through this mess, though!”

“I’ll find another way around!” G’raha offered, voice tentative. They’d seen few intact ways  _ up _ , ladders and ropes dangling from the edges of courtyards and through breaks in railing to connect the two halves of the city where stairs and bridges had long been destroyed.  _ Another way around _ entailed uncertainty in the utmost--there may not be another way around until the siege subsided. A hundred unknowns stood between him and  _ another way around _ , not least of which was the prospect of a sudden, bloody end.

“Fine!” Biggs finally answered. “I’ll meet you at the gates when this is over!”

G’raha ducked around a shower of dust off the manor as another projectile hit nearby, and with a last shout of, “Good luck!” made his way back to the shadow of Fortemps manor. The years had not been kind to any of the old homes of the High Houses, the stones jostled apart in places where the mortar had cracked, timbers scorched and windows broken out. Fortemps had been the best preserved of all of them, and for a moment G’raha considered sheltering inside--the house felt alien, like he was treading on a part of his old friend’s life where he’d never belonged. He heard screams in the distance, and moved on. Going  _ down _ was the safest bet; years of conflict had reinforced the lower parts of the city until the Brume was nearly a cavern.

To go  _ down, _ first he had to go  _ up,  _ through a long avenue flanked by the legs and bare bases of broken off statues. He’d never been to Ishgard in its prime, and it was hard to imagine what the city must have looked like with so much rubble, the grand buildings of her government looking little more than a great broken off fence in the distance. A small group of marauders passed by at the upper end of the avenue so G’raha ducked behind the base of a statue. It was the first glimpse he’d gotten of the city’s attackers, and he couldn’t resist a second look, peeking out just enough to glimpse two individuals in hodge podge armor flanking an old Garlean Reaper that looked like every part had been replaced by scrap many times over. Behind the reaper dragged a trussed up aevis corpse, the chest caved in. 

Weight settled on G’raha’s shoulder and he lashed out, reeling on his assailant--only to miss despite their nearness, hand swiping through open air. An elezen crouched next to him in battered silver armor, pale hair pulled back tight from his face. G’raha hissed under his breath, and the man rocked back on his heels, raising his gauntleted hands in a placating gesture. “Easy, stranger. I am not here to harm you. But if you are seeking shelter, I can show you a way around these ruffians.”

G’raha’s ear twitched, tracking the passage of the marauders while the rest of his attention bore down upon the armored elezen. His armor all matched, and something about it seemed strangely familiar, the ornamentation and points around smooth metal and scale Ishgardian in a very classical way. It was  _ ridiculous _ looking until one imagined a dragon trying to bite down on the armor--useless in this day and age when the only dragons anyone ever saw were desperate Ishgardians taking the only route available to defend their families. And yet here was this strange man, out of place and out of time, spear slung across his back. It seemed unlikely he might be one of the marauders, so G’raha followed his instincts. “Lead the way.”

The man led him back down towards the manors, then over to a gap in the railing--below them a narrow slip of courtyard remained, connected to a bridge and the somewhat intact building across the way. He gestured for G’raha to come closer, and when he did the man grabbed him, straightened up, and then dropped off the side. G’raha pinned his ears, waiting for a horrible clatter of armor--but they landed on stone in total silence. “In there,” the man said, pointing across the bridge. “The way down is destroyed, but you’ll be safe inside. Go. I’ll keep an eye out.”

As he surged ahead a glint in the half-smashed rosette window above the doorway caught G’raha’s eye. He didn’t have time to ponder on it, picking his way across the most intact parts of the bridge. As he drew near he heard a creaking noise behind the doors, and then they cracked open just enough for him to slip through.

Inside the heavy walls dampened the sounds of impact save the broken out window, and he found himself in a grand hall, dusty and strewn only with small rubble. Inside he found a hyuran woman in the very same armor the man had been wearing, but black, and now he recognized it for true drachenmaille. She tugged the door closed and rebarred it.

“‘E’s gone,” called down from above, and G’raha reeled from the grand surroundings to the broken rosette window. Another hyur sat on the sil, carefully wedged in place so that he could peek out through the broken section, a long-barreled gun across his lap. “Like always.”

“Keep an eye out.” Another man, and G’raha jerked his head back down to find the new speaker, a dark-haired elezen with startlingly blue eyes, barely into adulthood. He wore a sword that was still slightly too large at his hip, and G’raha wondered with things being as they were if the man would ever grow into it. “Come along. Let’s get you beneath with the others.”

G’raha followed him, gawking at the tall stained glass windows and fine, mostly intact stonework. They’d stepped back in time-- _ his _ time, to the Ishgard he’d never seen, and this small glimpse was as grand as it was oppressive. They passed through a series of doors and at last into what appeared to be a library, the books long since gone. The man stopped in front of one of the empty shelves and knocked against the back of it. A loud sound echoed behind, like something heavy dropped on stone, and the book case slowly pulled into the wall and slid behind its neighbor. He suspected this was the old cathedral, and G’raha’s imagination ran wild with what the stairs beyond might once have been used for.

Inside another young elezen stood at a crank. “Not seen this one before,” he commented. “Sure he’s not a spy?”

“I’m a researcher,” G’raha immediately countered, and winced inwardly.

“Researcher--of bloody what? There’s nothing left here but--”

“Haldrath’s spectre brought him,” the elezen with the startlingly blue eyes said. Their gazes met for a long moment in challenge, and the one at the crank looked away first.

“Come on, then.” And that, it seemed, was that. His initial guide left and this new one cranked the secret door back into place and then guided him down the stairs, grumbling all the while. “Bloody Fury-damned idiots. What if I dress up like a bloody ghost and waltz whomsoever I please up to the doors?”

_ Haldrath _ seemed a vaguely familiar name, as if he’d read it somewhere or heard it in a lecture, but Ishgard had never been his focus. G’raha’s eyes lingered on the lantern the man carried, trying to hold his questions in. With his continued mumbling the man was clearly  _ not _ pleased with his presence, and he didn’t want to make things worse by--”Pardon me,” he said, voice soft and polite, because he could  _ never _ keep a question in, “but did he say Haldrath?”

“Aye he did, daft bugger. Like a bloody noble ghost’s got nothing better to do than haunt the streets every time something like this happens and lead people what’s out or stranded to us. Like as not it’s some barmy bastard in his gran’s armor with the finish painted over.” The man glanced over his shoulder at G’raha while descending the stairs, somehow never missing a step. His lips drew up into a thin line and his brows arched. “And even if it is the ghost of bloody Haldrath himself, blighter never had a lick of common sense, did he?” Beyond his guide G’raha saw light shining at the base of the stairs, as if from another room. “Follows old Thordan the First into killing a dragon, follows him into rippin’ a second one’s eyes out but doesn’t finish the job, buggers off to cry in his ale and try to die fighting dragons and lets that whole mess our grams and grans pulled themselves out of get started--why in the very last hell should we listen to him?”

The name  _ Haldrath _ finally settled somewhere familiar in his memory, from a survey of world history lecture series he’d attended when he was  _ barely _ a teen: the first dragoon, the first  _ azure _ dragoon. It seemed beyond unlikely that even had some impression of him lingered, it would have lasted this long, and G’raha found himself agreeing with his guide that it must have been someone playing at being the hero. Regardless, G’raha was  _ grateful _ , and he needed to keep in mind the reverence others might pay such a figure. 

“Here we are,” his guide said, not seeming to notice G’raha hadn’t answered him. They stopped at an iron gate, and someone on the other side unbarred it. Beyond lay a long, dimly lit corridor with a number of individuals huddled along the walls. “I think this one will be a while,” his guide said. “Best settle in.”

G’raha squeezed past clusters of people, looking for some place to occupy, while the metal gate screeched back into place. From tattered cloaks and patchwork garb Ishgardians gazed at him, some mistrusting, some blank with perpetual shock. He kept his “Excuse me” and “Pardon me” as quiet and polite as possible, and finally found a spot with about a fulm of space on either side where he settled down, pulling his cloak close around him. The air was thick and damp with the number of people, and for a brief moment he worried how much air was down here.

“‘Scuse.” His head whipped around at a small voice to find a tousle-headed child, one tooth missing and ears just a little too big, holding a copy of  _ Heavensward _ like one might hold a stuffed animal. “Are you a voidsent?”

G’raha made a soft, surprised noise before his brain caught up to her words. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your eyes are red,” she said, and reached one hand up over her head to gesture. “And your horns are making your hood stick up.” The book began to slip and she quickly wrapped both arms around it again, pulling it up.

For a moment G’raha gaped at her, speechless. He’d been called a number of things in his life but this was a first, and he wondered what the people upstairs had thought, and all the others in the hallway, if this small child asked such a question. A slightly older child rushed up and wrapped his arms around her, hissing, “You can’t just say that sort of stuff!” as he tried to haul her off. They tussled a little, with the boy at an advantage not due to size but that the girl would not put aside her book.

“‘Tis alright,” G’raha answered, voice low and soft. He saw no other miqo’te here, and hard as it was to fathom perhaps the girl had never seen one. He slowly reached up and flicked back his hood, bit back a sigh of relief and wiggled his ears. “As you can see, I am no voidsent.”

The children stared, pale eyes wide, and then the girl emitted a high pitched squeal that started high in her throat and by the time she was done sounded like it might be coming from somewhere  _ above _ her. G’raha flinched back into the wall, ears pinning. The noise ended when she began jumping up and down in the boy’s grasp, shouting, “He’s like the man in my book! He’s like the man in my book! He’s like the--”

The boy wrapped a hand over her mouth, and she bit him viciously. That got him off her, the boy inspecting his hand worriedly. “Tolvreth he’s like the man in my book!” she said at a much more reasonable volume.

“You already said that a dozen times.” Tolvreth stopped looking at his hand and looked from the girl to G’raha, then back. “What’s so bloody special about that?”

She ignored the boy, instead giving G’raha a very quick bow, book still held tight to her body. She said her name much too quickly to understand, tongue tripping over itself, and asked, “Are you really a miqo’te? Can I see your tail? Can I touch your ears? Are you here to save us like the one in my book?”

In that moment G’raha became  _ keenly _ aware of the stares of the people around them. No one else might believe that but this small child with her glittering eyes, but they stared while she asked it, and he felt the weight of their scrutiny, their expectation that  _ something _ might happen.  _ Are you here to save us? _

Was he? Could what he was doing be considered  _ saving _ them? Or was it killing them all? He glanced aside one way, then the other, taking in the tired, huddled people hiding down here. If he told them of his mission, what would they say?

When he looked back the girl had leaned forward, reaching out one hand towards his head. With no more room to back up G’raha raised his hands in a placating gesture and the girl stopped. “I’m afraid I’m not much good at saving anyone,” he told her, and resisted the urge to worry at his lip. “But I am quite the fan of the man in your book, as well. I collect stories about the Warrior of Light, which is why I came here, to his home country.”

Someone off to the side scoffed, and G’raha glanced up to see a middle-aged elezen woman sharing a cloak with an older man. “Terrible bloody luck you’ve got, coming here just now.”

He turned his attention back to the girl, who still stood with her hand outstretched, pale eyes transfixed. “I propose a trade,” G’raha said. “I will tell you a story that I guarantee you have  _ never _ heard about the Warrior of Light, but in return you must tell me one that is not in your book--or help me find someone who knows a story not in your book. Do you think you could do that?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, oh yes, I know  _ everyone _ who knows stories about the man in my book, lots of stories--I hope you have stories too!”

G’raha smiled, pleased that his distraction had worked--and pleased, too, to have occasion to recall happier times without guilt. When things had seemed much simpler, and he had merely been a young man in pursuit of knowledge, not a timelost wanderer on what might prove to be a damning mission. “Sit with me.” He gestured, and the girl sat--and so did the boy. G’raha rearranged his cloak, making sure his tail was well out of grabbing range beneath it, and his ears pricked back and forth, picking up the silence in the hall, as if all of this secret Ishgard were waiting to listen.

“As we all know,” he began, projecting his voice slightly, testing the echo of the hall--not too much, yet, he could fill it a little more, “the Warrior of Light was a great seeker of mysteries and scholar of all things green and growing.” His voice swelled a little more, rich and warm, and his ears shifted about to follow the sounds of his additional audience settling in. “Once, when he had just barely earned his name, he set about to discover why the trees of Mor Dhona had all turned to crystal and how it had happened. So he took up his axe and he left behind his armor….”

Several  _ bells _ later G’raha filed out of the hiding place shoulder to shoulder with the citizens of Ishgard, a welcome guest rather than a suspicious stranger.  _ That bard _ , he heard them call him, even though he was nothing of the sort--but he did not correct them, because they seemed to take some small comfort in the thought. When they entered the grand entry hall of the cathedral several of the beautiful windows lay in shards on the floor, crackling under boots and sticking at least one person. The rosette over the door had been completely blasted out, and the man who’d sat watch was nowhere to be seen. The man and woman who had been at the door remained, sooty and bloodied, the woman leaning heavily against one open door as people filtered out to see to the state of their homes.

“Bard.” At the door the man with the startlingly blue eyes clapped a hand on his shoulder, stopping him mid-stride. The person behind him bumped into him, and merely clapped him on the other shoulder as they passed. “I wished to have a word with you ere you leave us. Will you await me in the chapel?”

G’raha stiffened slightly, searched the man’s gaze as if he might find some indication of good or ill intent there--he was all too aware of how quickly his newfound camaraderie with the people of Ishgard might evaporate. He needed to find Biggs as quickly as possible, to make sure he’d weathered this storm as well and be on their way. And yet G’raha nodded. The man’s placid countenance broke into a smile. “Good. I will not be long.”

G’raha pushed to the very edge of the throng of people and wove his way back against the push of them, finally breaking out into the hall once more and making for the great doors into the chapel--or at least, he  _ assumed _ , Ishgardian architecture was still a new concept.

He stepped once more into an old world, one he had lived in but not known. Rows of old worn pews flanked either side of a central walkway, with formal aisles to either side. The great statue of the Fury behind the altar had seen better times, part of her head and all of her spear arm missing--but her shield remained firm. Behind her the late afternoon light set stained crystal windows ablaze. G’raha began moving,  _ drawn _ to those windows.

Much of Eorzea’s stained crystal was purely ornamental, lacking the storytelling quality of artisans in more far-flung lands, but  _ this _ was a marvelous feast of figures in intricate detail--scenes of war against the dragons flanked the display on either end, full panes of Thordan’s ascent and endless conflict. The next panes in on either side depicted peace--Ishgardian society, the accord reached with the dragons, people of all classes coming together to rebuild. The two to either side of the center showed war once more, but one with which G’raha had grown all too familiar--the end of the Dragonsong War, the story depicted in Edmont Fortemps’ book. Here rendered in fine detail but small compared to the window were the Fortemps family welcoming the Warrior of Light into Ishgard, and here opposite were the Ascians speaking with Archbishop Thordan VII. Further up was a lovely rendering in crystal of Lady Iceheart mid-transformation into Shiva, and further still Hrasevelgr and Nidhogg locked in battle. Dozens of scenes peppered the two windows, and G’raha slowly made his way around the statue behind the altar, trying to get a clearer view.

At the top of the stairs G’raha stopped, standing in the cast light from the window directly behind the Fury. Though like the other windows pieces of it had long fallen out or been broken, the entire window was a glimmering portrait of Aden in the fashion of one of the Saints. At the top an overwrought script read, “The Fury’s Spear and Savior of Ishgard.” A great gash across the eyes broke out much of his face, but enough remained that it was obvious he stood in profile, spear held in one hand in much the way the statue of Halone held hers. What remained was absolute artistry: the red of his hair blazed in the light, the gold streaks glittered. The curve of his jaw was much sharper rendered in leaded crystal, unsoftened despite the short beard--to which G’raha had yet to grow accustomed to seeing. The details of his armor had been lovingly rendered, too, not the drachenmaille he’d now seen twice today but something simpler, very similar to what he wore in the many newspaper sketches G’raha had seen. 

G’raha’s ears twitched at a little scuff behind him, and he turned just as footsteps picked up. “Pardon me,” the man with the startlingly blue eyes said, just mounting the stairs. “‘Twas not my intent to stare, but the light from that window set an otherworldly air about you.”

G’raha looked down at himself to find dark shadows and a brilliant slash of blue light covering his right arm, thrown by Aden’s armor. He lifted it, watching the light shift and play across it as it moved. Somehow it seemed fitting that the light of this window should cast him in glory. “I scarcely noticed,” he murmured, returning his gaze to the window. “I did not expect to find such a secular scene here. Nor this--” He gestured, blue light flashing across his arm, the leading casting strange shadows that almost looked like veins. “‘Tis like a depiction of one of the Saints.”

“Is he not?” the man asked, drawing to a comfortable distance at G’raha’s side. He folded his arms behind him, gazing at the window. “He delivered us from a thousand years of evil we mistook for righteousness. The Fury’s Spear.” The man’s voice rose, filling the hall with the air of a recitation. “Savior of Ishgard. Herald of Night. Ser Dellebecque of Ascendant Eventide. He arrived just before our darkest hour--and saw us through it. Well,” his voice softened, and his stance faltered slightly, “perhaps not our darkest any longer.” He sighed, moved up to pace to the other side of the window, gesturing up at the smashed out glass well above his head. “The cathedral has served as a sanctuary for a long time. When I was a child the citizens of the city waged war against one another, and dissidents broke in, ransacking anything of value. They broke off the Fury’s spear and used it to smash through this window.” He lowered his hand, crossing his arms behind his back again as he turned to face G’raha from the other side of the window, backlit by the scene of Thordan VII’s transformation into a primal. “The Warrior of Light no longer watches over us, they said. In death he has abandoned us. In death he allowed this to happen.”

“I wonder, sometimes, if they were not right. Had he lived, none of this would have come to pass.” The man glanced back to the window, considering it, while a thin lash of rage swelled from deep within G’raha’s stomach, lighting at his heart. “But they were wrong, too. He does watch over us yet. His deeds changed us, made us better--and when the time came we did not hesitate to rely upon one another. His legend yet guides us.”

G’raha took a deep, calming breath, looking from the man to the window. “You are a scholar, you said?” the man asked. “And a collector of tales of the Warrior of Light?”

“I am,” G’raha answered.

“I have some things that may interest you, then. My grandsire was the first and last Speaker of our House of Lords--they fought alongside one another.”

The man descended the stairs on the other side and made his way out. G’raha’s ears followed the sound of his footsteps, but he lingered a while longer, gazing on the windows. He wondered what Aden’s eyes would’ve looked like blazing out of that sunlit crystal, what shapes they would have cast, and he regretted that he did not have the chance to feel that light upon his skin. The armor, though--G’raha looked down at himself one more time, and in this sacred, timeless place traced that blue light with his opposite hand.  _ His legend yet guides us _ .

Finally G’raha turned away, unaware of the play of light across his face, the dark shadows like a hood upon his brow and the slash of color across his cheek, the weight of fate that marked him for following this path.

* * *

  
“Apologies for the state of things,” his host said, and G’raha realized rather belatedly the man--Aymeric de Borel’s grandson--had not introduced himself by name. He hauled open a door set at an angle into a crude stone casement, much like the entrance to a cellar--to reveal just that. “The manor collapsed when I was a boy, and with the shelling at the time from what remained of Garlemald it seemed pointless to rebuild. I had just put my mind to rebuilding when these raiders appeared with their old artillery.” He picked up a lantern hung inside and carefully lit it, then began his descent, gesturing for G’raha to follow.

The stairs let out into a clean, cool room with walls lined in stone. His host went about lighting lanterns, revealing a cramped but  _ cozy _ living space of temporary partitions, old furniture and furs. One lantern revealed a bookshelf filled to bursting, and a pair of portraits--one of Aymeric de Borel in less formal attire than his formal portrait in what must have been his home, and another next to it of Aden standing, his hand on the shoulder of an elezen man seated in front of him. G’raha recognized the setting from combing the ruins of House Fortemps’ manor, but the house had long ago been stripped of most of its valuables, so he could place Haurchefant Greystone only from his description.

“This was salvaged from Fortemps Manor after it was abandoned,” his host explained. “Among a few other things I have here. The original notes for  _ Heavensward _ were rumored to be hidden away, but to my knowledge no one has ever found them….”

“I did,” G’raha said absently. His gaze lingered on the warmth of Aden’s smile in the portrait, the relaxed square of his shoulders, the slight lean of his body into the man in front of him, all captured in subtle detail by a very skilled painter. On the hand over Haurchefant’s shoulder he wore a dark ring, and G’raha moved closer to inspect the details of it, finding a plain band with what appeared to be a diamond and a sapphire seated next to one another.

“Good,” his host said. “Bear with me a moment, if you would, it has been a very long time since I put these relics away….” 

G’raha’s attention turned to the man seated before Aden, the pale shimmer of his hair and his warm, friendly eyes. He had heard of Haurchefant, then merely a friend of Aden’s, but never met the man--and Aden had spoken little of him, as most things. In the portrait he leaned into Aden’s touch, his body language far less subtle and more open in his admiration. They looked comfortable in a way that G’raha struggled to comprehend, and a pang of jealousy and pain touched his heart. Had he remained, would he have derailed this in some way? Would Aden still have fled to Haurchefant, or perhaps sought him out--and thence to somewhere else? Sharlayan, perhaps? G’raha’s mind reeled, playing out a whole life he had not lived, an adventure he had not had--and the slow, quiet realization at Aden’s side that he loved him. He did not dare envision a return of those affections, but perhaps--quiet acceptance. Acknowledgement. He  _ hoped _ that Aden’s friendship with him could have weathered that revelation, and that they might continue as they had, but…  _ accepted _ . His feelings not returned, but  _ acknowledged _ . And that would have been enough.

Had he remained and joined the Scions as Aden had asked him, would he have been at Aden’s side as he fled to Ishgard? Would he have realized what lay in his heart while watching his dearest friend fall in love? And would he have had the  _ strength _ to stand back and let it happen, to not interfere while Aden chased his happiness?

Could he have given his life in place of Haurchfant’s?

“Here we are.” G’raha shook his head, rousing from a waking reverie. His mind yet reeled with lives unlived, while he both envied the gentle peace in the painting and wished nothing more than to see Aden like that--happy, hale, and whole of heart.

* * *

A full sun passed before G’raha made his way down on a rope ladder to the lower part of the city, and eventually located Biggs. He related all that had occurred, and as neither of them were worse for wear they agreed to return to Mor Dhona and determine their next course of action. “There is someone we should visit,” G’raha insisted. “I doubt anyone has been to see him in a very long time.”

It was a long way around to the grave of Haurchefant Greystone, but worth it to wipe away the snow and run his fingers over the worn name etched in the stone. “Thank you,” he murmured, “for taking care of him.”

* * *

  
He captured that feeling--that  _ need _ to see Aden happy even in the arms of another, that gratitude towards the man who had done what he could not, the palpable swell of admiration in the audience as he had told the story of Aden falling into the crystal briar patch--and as a citizen told his story, and another, ever single individual there descended from someone whose life had been touched by Aden. Over his time researching he had come to wonder if death had not been a relief from hardship--and perhaps it had. But Aden had  _ lived _ , too, for these people, and they yet loved him for it.

Was what  _ Aden  _ did, under everything else, his anger and his sorrow, done in love?

G’raha opened his eyes on the thick gray rain and the muted colors of Mor Dhona, ears pricking to the conversation ongoing behind him. Perhaps what Aden had been doing in the east didn’t matter.

Perhaps G’raha already had everything he needed right here.


	9. Relics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G'raha learns more about the dying world around him and rails against it, until relics of a different sort of dying arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can yell at me on twitter @AStormcalled or tumblr @dellebecque

After the rain the Ironworks rushed to clean their equipment before the pale sun baked the ashen slurry to concrete. G’raha caught the Skywatcher on staff before she returned to her other duties, and they sat on a low barrier wall as he quizzed her, watching the others work.

“...and the aetheric stagnation combined to suppress natural weather systems. When a system  _ does _ manage to form, it picks up this  _ stuff _ .” She toed at the ashen slurry coating the ground, off-white and gritty. “This aetheric ash, if you will. It slowly spreads out from ground zero of the Black Rose bombs, and this is one of the main mechanisms of that. It means that once a weather system passes over one of those locations it quickly loses strength, because it’s carrying the contamination with it.”

“This ash was  _ everywhere _ in Ala Mhigo,” he murmured, idly kicking some from a blade of grass. “‘Twas so pervasive one could not avoid eating it or drinking it or breathing it in.”

“It kills anything it comes in contact with, slowly leeching the aether out of it.” She straightened up, flicking back a lock of blond hair before crossing her arms. “People, too. It takes a while. Anywhere it is in quantity crops don’t grow again, fewer babies are born. We think--” She swallowed thickly, looking away, out at the long expanse of crystalline terrain caked in the slurry. Those spires of crystal yet visible seemed to glow more dimly than before. “Eventually, it will stop raining altogether. That’s my job now, you see. After every storm to look at an aetherometer and tell everyone, ‘Yes, it will rain again.’ I can’t tell them when until the winds change and the clouds appear on the horizon, only if it will at all. Only if there’s enough ambient aether left at all. If we’re in the aether-death zone yet.”

G’raha didn’t dare ask,  _ How close are we?  _ even as the question burned in his mind. It would set a time limit on the Ironworks’ project, and perhaps they knew. A hundred other questions sprung to mind, and his gaze drifted towards the Tower--the only place he could answer them from. Instead he asked, “Will it rain again?”

“This time, yes.”

But one day it would rain for the last time, perhaps on the whole star--and their fate would truly be sealed.

* * *

G’raha hauled the last box of Scion paraphernalia up to the room they’d dubbed the Umbilicus, the only place aside from the Throne where he could interact with all of the Tower’s systems, and lost himself in the controls. Salina’s memories guided him, but even she had interacted little with the minutiae he now sought. According to the Tower there had been a full half-bell decrease in the duration of night since the Calamity, Azeyma’s pale face dragging sluggishly through the sky, too lazy to set properly. It compensated, somehow, for the drain of the aetheric ash falling on the Tower, but it wouldn’t forever. The Tower kept climatic data for the whole region and with a bit of finagling it spat it out in easily digestible charts--even if he had to read them in ancient Allagan script--confirming what the Skywatcher had told him in cold, numerical detail. The scholarly, analytical part of his brain, always cataloging and processing, finally found the wherewithal to  _ panic _ at the projections. What the Skywatcher had termed  _ aetheric death _ was mere moons away for Mor Dhona. People might linger on long in the area, but it would not sustain them. They would wither as they had in Ala Mhigo.

Even more terrible was the knowledge that he could  _ fix _ that. In his digging he found systems in the Tower for sustaining crops without access to wind and rain and soil--they needed only sun, processed for them by the Tower. There was enough equipment stored inside the Tower to build a settlement extending from its base, almost as if it were  _ intended _ to weather these Calamities and rebuild anew. G’raha wondered if a skilled artisan could even cobble more of the same--if the Tower might sustain a whole city, a refuge against the results of the Eighth Umbral Calamity, a place where the peoples of Eorzea might find hope---

He pulled his hands away from the controls. No. Under these circumstances even the Tower itself would reach an unsustainable level of power drain merely  _ existing.  _ Before the Calamity, perhaps, but now--not as things were, now. It would be a hollow hope, and cruelty. At the end of everything, when the people finally succumbed or another Calamity came, the Tower would lack the necessary power to fulfil the Ironworks’ mad plan. There truly  _ was _ only one path forward.

And yet… it was still a choice.

“What would you have done, Aden?” His eyes watered and his ears pinned back as he asked the question, gazing out at nothing. And even as he asked it, the things he had learned on his journeys slotted themselves into the perfect crystalline clarity of an answer: he would have fought and bled for another way, and then when the inevitability became clear he would have killed himself inside with the decision. The people of the Ironworks had done the fighting and the bleeding for another way long before they settled on the inevitability and woke him.

_ Everything you do, you must do in love. _

How could he, when all he could do was abandon these people and roll the dice for them on a happier future?

* * *

Many bells later G’raha dragged himself back down the Tower, steps leaden with the weight of his burden. A decidedly strange sound, almost like a chocobo’s call, echoed through the entry hall of the Tower, and he lifted his head from gazing at the stairs to find Biggs standing with some dark parcel tucked under one arm, Tessa and Merrick standing before him. At Merrick’s side stood what seemed to be a cartoonish mammet of a chocobo, and while he’d seen illustrations and crystallographs of Alpha in Ironworks documents nothing had prepared him for the creature’s startling appearance in the flesh.

Biggs and Alpha turned for the Ironworks’ staging area further inside the Tower, while Tessa and Merrick headed for the door. G’raha stopped at the bottom of the stairs, torn, but he knew there was only one way out; if he followed Merrick and Tessa, he would know if Biggs or their new visitor left. By the time he caught up Tessa stood at the bottom of the long stairs, and Merrick carefully paced the foundation of the Tower, one hand held out in front of him almost like a dowsing rod.

G’raha drew up to her side and watched for a moment before he asked, “What is he doing?”

Tessa startled a little, looking to her side in surprise, then returned to her relaxed stance. “There’s something the old Ironworks buried near the base of the Tower, but he couldn’t recall where it was, so he’s looking.”

“That might take quite some time,” G’raha murmured, and Tessa nodded. “Do you have any idea what it is?”

“Didn’t say.” She shook her head, turned her gaze back to Merrick slowly working his way across the front of the Tower. “He might not remember that, either.”

They chatted idly, but neither had much enthusiasm for it and stood there in silence for half a bell, watching Merrick as he looked for some mysterious sign, always with his hand held out in front of him, palm down and fingers splayed. At length the silence grew too oppressive, G’raha’s own thoughts about the horror of leaving these people to their fate and throwing all in on a different future stifling him. He returned to the Tower, the ever present hum of power and ring of crystal a strange comfort. But shouldn’t it be? He had lain in it as one lays in the womb for two hundred years and been reborn. The Tower was a relic of ancient times, of distant hope, and one now familiar to him. Of course it would be a comfort.

He felt a little more alien for that as he listened to the echo of his own footsteps through the entry hall.

The Ironworks’ staging area consisted of one very large room partitioned off into sections--much of the equipment had been moved out of their facilities into the Tower, and some of what had been found in the Tower repurposed or put to use. There was a mess, a small area where a few engineers had hauled in patched sofas, fabrication facilities, even a lab where they experimented with things found deep in the Tower and how best to interface with them. He ducked into one of the rooms as a group hauled past one of the massive pieces of the Tycoon’s inner workings, one huge escape wheel so close through the open door he could reach out and touch it. If they were moving parts down then they were preparing to assemble it, and shortly after activate it--and he would be off to roll the dice.

But what if he couldn’t--

G’raha’s ears pinned back, his fists clenched at his sides. It was the real fear, the thing at the center of all this: what if he  _ couldn’t? _ Couldn’t save Aden, couldn’t turn back the tide and avert the Calamity, couldn’t give these people’s forefathers the second chance they deserved? He was a researcher, a historian, not an  _ adventurer _ , and it would take an adventurer of Aden’s caliber to accomplish such a feat. To do the  _ impossible _ .

And they would never know he had failed. Would that not also be hollow hope?

The laborers and engineers passed and G’raha swept back out into the hall, tail lashing in agitation behind him. What could he do? As he had done on the expedition, offer only his bloodline and disappoint those precious to him. At least if he failed Aden might never know--and he would go to his grave still thinking  _ perhaps G’raha will wake in a brighter future _ . More hollow hope, but perhaps a  _ kindness _ rather than a cruelty.

His feet carried him to the fabrication room, only Bigg’s boisterous, “Ho, lad, over here!” drawing him from his miserable reverie. Biggs sat on stool next to one of the workbenches--tall by his standards but almost comically small compared to the roegadyn--an assortment of strange shapes of black metal laid out before him. Alpha stood atop the table as well, unreal with his wide, innocent eyes and his chunky, childish body. He warbled something that sounded like a cautious greeting, walking to the very edge of the table. “This here’s Alpha,” Biggs said as he approached. “He’s been very eager to meet you.”

G’raha composed himself as best he could, and managed, “Hello, Alpha. I’ve heard much about you,” in as pleasant a tone as possible.

The bird met his gaze steadily and gave another warbling sound in reply, spreading one wing. It seemed to convey no words, but many things: relief, gratitude, a strange  _ knowing _ . The largest chunk of metal on the table shifted, a tiny round head on an ornate beetle’s carapace twisting around before the eyes lit up for a split second. G’raha’s ears pinned, his tail fluffing behind him. Alpha warbled and turned back to Biggs with a little bob of his head downwards.

“Aye, I’ll explain.” Biggs paused working on the beetle to gesture at the mess of parts surrounding it. “This is Omega.” G’raha’s ears didn’t budge. “Yes,  _ that _ Omega. Seen better days, but most of us have, haven’t we?”

“Do you think they will assist us?”

Before Biggs could reply Alpha made a cheery,  _ certain _ sound, his wide eyes crinkling up a little. He turned back to G’raha and hopped down from the table, wobbling up to G’raha’s side and looking up at him. Some of his resentment and distrust of this incredibly  _ bright _ appearance in such a bleak time melted away under that bright, strangely reassuring presence. “Seems he’s made up his mind to stick with you for now. Why don’t you show him around the Tower?” Biggs suggested. “You’re a better hand for it than I.”

* * *

Two suns of holing up in the Umbilicus alone passed, poring over data, the combined notes of the Ironworks, Merrick, and his own research into the magics necessary to propel the Tower across the Rift. At present the Tower wasn’t putting out  _ enough _ , not in the right  _ way _ at least. They’d need to shut down almost all of the non-essential systems, run everything at its lowest safe settings, and even then there was a  _ gap _ in everything. The Tower was tuned to bridge the gap to the Void, but this mysterious other star--the  _ First _ \--opposed it in every possible way. And when the spell  _ began _ it would no longer exist, and so they must fling the Tower into the Rift directionless and adrift at first. 

“G’raha?” His ears flicked back towards the door and he uncurled himself from his uncomfortable hunch over the controls. As soon as he moved a great stretch started at his tail and arced through every muscle of his body, and he winced at how stiff he’d grown, wondered at the time. The Skywatcher stood in the doorway, a metal box in her hands. “Stormcaller found what he was looking for, and said this is for you.” She crossed the room to meet him and offered him the box.

“Thank you.” He shifted the box to the crook of his arm, flipping open the lid with his free hand. Inside sat a copy of an old travelogue, one he’d always seen in Aden’s things when he stayed in the camp, and he nearly dropped the box. G’raha nearly forgot the Skywatcher as he turned back towards the controls, and swept aside the notes in a daze. He put the box down and pulled out the book, pages discolored with alchemical preservative. If it was the  _ exact _ copy Aden had carried he couldn’t be sure, but he flipped it open and inside the cover found achingly familiar handwriting:

_ Sweet dreams, you heroic moron. I’ll see you on the morrow. -A.D. _

Beneath it lay a pile of papers bound together with wire, also lacquered in alchemical preservative. Beneath the glaze lay the same handwriting, and he set the book aside, reached into the box and undid the wire with shaking hands, reading the first page all the while. 

_ Dear G’raha, _

_ Before the expedition broke up Wedge suggested we leave something behind for you, and though we haven’t quite figured out how to do it such that you’ll certainly find it, we all committed to it. Wherever you find this you should find something from each of the other members of the expedition. _

_ I apologize for taking so long to write you. Not long after the doors of the Tower closed things got a little out of hand. I will try to explain as best as possible, but in short the political situation in Ul’dah and the suspected infiltration of the Crystal Braves finally came to a head. In all likelihood the other Scions are all dead, leaving only Tataru, Alphinaud, Urianger, and myself. Others may have escaped from the Rising Stones, but we have yet to hear from or of them. I am currently sheltering in Camp Dragonhead in Coerthas, under the protection of Lord Haurchefant Greystone. It seems unfair that your first letter should be bleak news, but I promise you I am whole and recovering from the ordeal, and that is the best news I can offer you for now. We await permission to enter Ishgard proper and sanctuary. _

_ Faithfully yours, _

_ Aden _

He dropped the letter and picked up the next, sinking to the floor as he read.

_ Dear G’raha, _

_ We were granted permission to reside in Ishgard as wards of House Fortemps. I suspect recent circumstances may have hastened the timeline, but it’s too early to talk about those. Sometimes a thing is too fragile to discuss when it’s new.  _

_ We’re only just setting in and getting our bearings, but I already have that chocobo’s arse Estinien dragging me all over insisting I’m the second Azure Dragoon, nevermind that’s not possible so far as they know. After my experiences in Whitebrim--I’m sure you remember when I told you about that business with the airship--I intended to keep a low profile here. Estinien seems to command respect befitting his station rather than his recklessness, however, and folks listen when he says I’m his equal. Who knew rubbing his face into the snow moons ago would do more than make me feel better? _

_ Ishgard is beautiful, and I wish you could see it. _

He dragged the box down to the floor and greedily devoured the letters, heart pounding in his ears. The next one talked about the trial by combat, and Haurchefant’s gift, then, 

_ I suppose there’s no way around it, to explain why he walked this chocobo into a hall of governance without even thinking--admittedly daft even for him--but we’ve been courting since just before the other Scions and I were granted wardship. It’s strange, and I don’t know how to talk about it save he’s put a warm hearthfire in my chest. Being around him feels like I’m coming home, like I’m safe, and it’s precisely what I needed after that business with the Bloody Banquet and losing you. I wish you could meet him. You’d both get stuck trying to one-up each other with foolishness. _

They went on and on, detailing Aden’s journey with Estinien and Ysayle across Dravania, speaking hesitantly but frankly about his newfound love, the triumphant first defeat of Nidhogg, and finally with shaking hands G’raha read:

_ Haurchefant proposed to me today. I don’t know what I expected when I came here, but it wasn’t this. It may be meaningless to everyone but us, and perhaps you’ll balk at it, but I’m leaving the place of my best man open. It’s you. I know you’ll be here in spirit, even though you won’t read this until I’m cold and in the ground, but there’s nothing I’d want more than your blessing. I’ll put an invitation in here for you too. _

A drop splashed against the thin glaze of alchemical preservative, and G’raha choked back a pained sound. The words blurred together too much for a moment, and G’raha put the letter down before his tears ruined anything. A soft warble sounded from the doorway, a little shuffle, and he quickly wiped at his eyes, blinked back tears and found Alpha shuffling anxiously.

“My apologies,” G’raha said, voice tight. “Have you been there long?”

Alpha made a soft, noncommittal sound, a little shuffle of his wings. It seemed like a non-answer, perhaps  _ yes but it doesn’t matter _ . He followed it up by not quite meeting G’raha’s gaze, ducking his head and lifting it slowly with another soft sound, low at the beginning and higher at the end.

“You knew him, did you not? Aden. You were friends?” Alpha bobbed his head. “They’re letters he wrote me after I sealed myself in the,” G’raha paused to swallow thickly, “Tower. So no, no I am not alright.”

Alpha wandered a bit closer and made a soft, inquisitive noise. “They’re rather private,” G’raha guessed at his meaning. The bird shuffled his feet a little, then drew up to G’raha’s side and flopped down against him. His slight weight was warm, and more comforting than intrusive, and G’raha laughed a little in spite of himself, an ugly sound around his crying. Alpha very deliberately positioned himself such that he would not see the letters as G’raha held them, made an obvious point of it as he nestled in, and after a moment G’raha got over the thought that Alpha was a  _ stranger _ . They had both known Aden, and perhaps Alpha knew what Aden meant to him… and what he had apparently meant to Aden. They were refugees of another time, one neither of them could ever  _ truly _ have back, and after a few deep breaths he took Alpha’s offer of comfort for what it was. There was little enough of it to be found in this godsforsaken future.

The invitation never came, of course. Instead the next letter lacked a salutation and read, in larger, blockier script, written by someone taking great care against an unsteady hand:

_ If they tell you Nidhogg broke me, they’re lying. Zephirin broke me. _

G’raha’s breath caught in his throat. He needed no explanation for the sudden leap in dates, the terse nature of the letter. He knew what had happened. And Aden apparently trusted he would know. The next continued much the same, though the writing was a little closer to normal:

_ One life for one world doesn’t sound like such a bad deal. _

If he hadn’t read the Scions’ reports on the Warriors of Darkness that would’ve sounded dangerous--and even so, it confirmed a terrible fear G’raha had long carried. Aden had a darkness in him even when they’d known one another, some insidious self-destructive impulse. He’d asked himself more than once if that quiet death of simply  _ laying down _ hadn’t been a mercy, and he asked again.

The letters changed after that, reflective, detailed in strange ways, detached and candid at the same time. It almost seemed as if someone else had written them, or if Aden wrote them  _ to _ someone else. They continued that way up until one read simply:

_ I’m sorry. I’ve been writing to you like you weren’t you--like the theory of you. You deserve a better friend than I’ve been, or than I was. _

The one after:

_ All anyone ever asks about is Haurchefant. Love of my life, heart of my heart, what a shame I lost him, until his name burns in my throat like Ratatoskr’s burned in Nidhogg’s. Well now I’ve lost him for good. Bloody Imperial nearly cut me in half, and cut off his ring. It’s gone. Maybe they’ll stop fucking asking. Let me forget for a breath or a heartbeat. _

_ Why doesn’t anyone ever ask about Moenbryda. Why doesn't anyone ask about Noraxia. Why doesn’t anyone ask about you. _

Another letter passed detailing a miserable ship voyage, and after it one about settling in at Kugane. They spaced out somewhat in that period, interesting and obscure bits of history about the places he went or vivid descriptions of scenery, but they never sounded as  _ normal _ as they had during those early days in Ishgard. One eventually contained:

_ I’ve lost myself, and just found something I didn’t want to find in the parts where I’m missing. Zenos showed me what’s still alive in me and I don’t like it.  _

The letters grew terse again, like he was checking off a list of  _ things that needed to go in letters to G’raha _ . It was interesting, but… mechanical. Like he churned out the letters simply to churn them out. As uncomfortable as Aden’s descent was to read G’raha  _ needed _ it, needed the honesty. He wanted to reach through the letter and shake Aden and yell,  _ Tell me how you’re doing! _ But as he read on those letters revealed so much more, how much Zenos yae Galvus had wormed his way into Aden’s brain with just a few short exchanges. By the time he defeated Shinryu G’raha realized Aden was  _ lonely _ , and what he’d meant when he said  _ what’s still alive in me _ .

The last letter read:

_ I miss you. Every godsdamn day, I miss you. I know why you did what you did, but I still wish you didn’t have to do it. I miss you more than I miss Haurchefant--because I can go to Mor Dhona and you’re right there, if I could just find a way to tear the damn doors off that stupid Tower. And you’d understand, and you’d know, and it wouldn’t have to be like this. _

_ Or maybe you wouldn’t. I’m not the man you knew any more--or maybe I never was. I don’t want to sully your memory with all this blood, when violence and the threat of death is the only thing that makes me feel anything. I understand Zenos. I wish I didn’t. _

_ It’s not fair to put this burden on you. Not when by the time you read this you won’t be able to do a damn thing about it. I’m sorry. I miss you. _

It was dated two days before the Empire deployed Black Rose.

G’raha shoved the letter back into the box. Alpha raised his head, blinking wide, innocent eyes up at him, and when a silent sob wracked G’raha’s body the bird scrambled up into his lap. G’raha threw his arms around him, and curled into his too-perfect soft feathers, and wept.


End file.
